


If you loved him, why was he in a box in an alley in the middle of winter?

by Aicnerys



Series: AU shenanigans [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Don’t copy to another site, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mairon is an old witchy person, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, dark!eru, did not edit am sorry, eonwe is a socially clueless homunculus, melkor got turned into a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-07-26 00:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 28,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicnerys/pseuds/Aicnerys
Summary: Mairon, an old witchy type, finds a black cat abandoned in a box in the alleyway behind his home. This may be a mistake.





	1. Stray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment, this is a side project. When I finish a chapter, I will upload it. That means it's essentially unedited and unplanned. Please bear with me with this, and if something is bad enough to jar you as you read, please don't hesitate to bring it to my attention.

Mairon, a witch that preferred to stay far and away from magical society, lived alone, in the middle of the city, supporting himself with tarot readings and selling ‘occult’ items, did not know why he had a cat now.

He found the cat, a small, fluffy black furball with pale blue eyes, in the alleyway behind his apartment. It was the dead of winter, and Mairon’s breath steamed in the air before him. Mairon had lived in many places, done many things, but he’d never owned a pet. When he was young, his family had a few cows. They lost them of course, just like they’d lost everything else. Mairon still remembered the fear that he and his family would be executed as well.

Mairon shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. If he thought of his youth, he would find himself irrationally angry. The cat in the box mewled.

“I know, I know, you’re confused.” Mairon said, picking up the box. “Shan’t be too far to my home.” The cat sighed disappointedly.

~~~

Mairon’s shop was distinctive; the storefront was simple, and advertised admirable quality products. He had many people stop by because they liked the display items, which were fascinating to mortal eyes, but mundane. Various crystals, books, tarot decks, and jars of herbs were offered, and the store was lit by colorful glass fixtures. Many of the shelves were draped with dark shawls with shimmering designs, all for sale. His store smelled faintly of incense. In the back, he kept his more esoteric items, ones that would cause suspicion in regular human hands. Above his shop was his home.

In contrast to the mainstream occult theme of his shop downstairs, Mairon’s home was decorated to appeal to the happier moments of his life. He had a carved inkstone from when he was a sailor on a British ship peddling opium, and several opals from when he’d been shipped to Australia as a felon that he’d smuggled out of mines, among other carefully collected things.

He looked down at the cat in the box.

“I have collected what I own over several lifetimes.” Mairon said sternly. “If you scratch or otherwise damage or destroy anything, I will euthanize you. Are we clear?”

The cat meowed.

“I will take that as a yes.” Mairon said, lifting the squealing cat out of the box. Leaving the creature to explore, he prepared the head out to buy the things he’d need for cat-owning.

~~~

He came back to find the cat waiting at the door for him, yowling pitifully.

“What?” Mairon asked, shutting the door and setting the things he’d bought on to the kitchen table. The cat rubbed against his legs, still mewling pathetically.

As he was fixing a place for the cat to eat, the cat headbutted his arm in a very determined manner, then mewed. Mairon sighed and pet the cat. After a good five minutes of nonstop petting, the cat went to his couch and fell asleep. Mairon continued on with getting the cat’s food, water, litter box, and scratchboard set up.

It had already been late when Mairon found the cat; by the time he’d got everything situated it was even later. His new cat was watching him curiously from the couch. Mairon was currently sitting cross-legged on the rug in his living area. With a small wave of his hand, Mairon cast a simple charm to examine his new cat’s health.

Luckily, his cat was healthy. He also learned his cat was male.

Tired, Mairon decided turn in for the night, retiring to his bedroom and going to bed.

~~~

Mairon woke up to his cat hyperventilating in the corner of his room. Concerned, Mairon checked on his cat with the same magic he used last night. Nothing was medically wrong with his cat, so Mairon went and checked on the cat’s food and water.

Finding everything in order, Mairon made himself coffee. Sitting at his kitchen table, checking the inventory list of his store, his cat snuck into the room and hopped onto the kitchen table.

“I suppose I need to name you.” Mairon said thoughtfully, petting the cat. “Dubh Óg would fit? You are little and black, after all. And you remind me of the dog my family had when I was young. ” The cat said nothing, as cats are wont to not respond.

Mairon got up when his coffee maker beeped to get himself a mug. Dubh Óg watched him cannily from the table as Mairon poured his mug, added creamer, and sat back down. Curiously, the cat sniffed the coffee, then tried to stick his head in the mug.

“I don’t think it’s healthy for cats to have coffee.” Mairon told him. As best as a cat could pout, Dubh Óg pouted. The cat spent the rest of the time Mairon had before he needed to start setting up shop pointedly staring out Mairon’s kitchen window.

When Mairon began to leave, Dubh Óg shot down from the windowsill like a bat out of hell, circling anxiously in front of Mairon, right between him and the door.

“What is it?” Mairon asked. Dubh Óg mewled pitifully.

“I have to go now; there’s work to be done.” Mairon told him. Dubh Óg did not want to relent, and instead started circling and brushing up against Mairon. Sighing, Mairon picked up the cat and set him on his shoulders.

“I’ll make a deal with you: don’t destroy anything in my shop and don’t cause trouble and I’ll let you down there with me, okay?” Mairon said. Sighing, Mairon realized he would need to bring Dubh Óg’s food, water, and litter box downstairs to his shop. He would also have to buy extra for when the cat was upstairs so he wouldn’t have to move objects too often.

~~~

Dubh Óg was very shy, and throughout the day, besides from poking around a bit before the shop opened and people started flitting in, he stayed by Mairon’s side.

At one point, Mairon turned to the cat and asked if he had abandonment issues. Dubh Óg flicked his tail haughtily.

Mairon was going to take that as a yes.

~~~

After lunch, his scheduled customer arrived.

Manwe Sulimo was older than Mairon by a fair bit, and had skin coloured like terracotta and pale blond hair. He was sharply dressed in a heavy cream coat. Mairon did not much like him, but supposed that his son Eonwe, a homunculus around Mairon’s age, was a bit better. Dubh Óg seemed afraid of him and resolutely clung to Mairon's side, much like a shy child hiding in their mother’s skirts.

“Mr. Sulimo.” Mairon said, inclining his head politely. “I have your order ready. Follow me, please.”

Mairon stepped out from behind the counter and led Manwe to the back room, where his truly magical objects were kept. The back room was plain and austere, with no frills and no decoration. The room was bigger on the inside than the outside, and a plain table with two chairs facing across from each other and a magically sealed box resting on the top was but a few feet from the door. Mairon took his seat furthest away from the door. Dubh Óg slipped under Mairon’s chair. Manwe sat down, not deining to remove his coat.

“I have, as requested, three feathers from a basilisk and five from a kunpeng in this here box.” Mairon said, tapping the lid of the box gently. “Do you have the agreed upon payment?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Manwe said, somewhat affronted that Mairon would doubt him. He removed a blue pouch from his coat pocket.

“Four crystallized dragon’s tears, as we agreed.” Manwe said simply. Mairon opened the box of feathers, allowed Manwe to see that the wares were genuine. Likewise, Manwe allowed Mairon to see the contents of the pouch. Both of them finding the other to be honest, they traded their items.

As Manwe was leaving, he suddenly turned to Mairon.

“My brother, Melkor, I’m sure you know of him, was recently turned into a cat by our father.” Manwe said. “If you see a fluffy black cat with blue eyes, do contact me. My father is very generous with his rewards.”

At that moment, Dubh Óg poked his head around the corner. The frightened way he turned tail and ran made Mairon suspicious of Manwe’s motives in asking about his brother.

“Actually, he would look very much like your cat.” Manwe said thoughtfully. “May I see him?”

“I very much doubt that Dubh Óg is Melkor, Manwe.” Mairon said coldly. “And even if he was, I know very well the rumours of your father’s relationship with your elder brother. I wonder, perhaps, if he is better off free of his family.”

“Mairon, you wound me.” Manwe said mournfully. “You must’ve not had any siblings, none at all, else you would understand where I am coming from. I am practically indisposed with worry for my brother, yet you won’t let me make sure?”

“I had several siblings, Manwe.” Mairon said coldly. “Most of them were imprisoned and executed on false charges. We were very lucky that the English were incompetent and our entire family was not hung for treason. If you ever say anything about my family again, you can rest assured that I will never, ever do business with you again.”

Mairon pointedly opened the door and gestured for Manwe to leave. With an aggrieved sigh, Manwe shook his head and left.

It took until Mairon closed his shop and opened the door to go back into his apartment for Dubh Óg to return, hurtling from God knows where in the shop back into the apartment. Mairon almost dropped all the cat supplies from being startled.

~~~

Mairon got the cat supplies resettled and was eating dinner when Dubh Óg jumped up on the table and headbutted him.

Mairon sighed, and petted him.

“Whatever am I to do with you?” Mairon asked Dubh Óg seriously.

Dubh Óg, being a cat, did not respond, headbutted Mairon and assumed breadloaf position on the table as Mairon finished his dinner and cleaned up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For shits and giggles, I will either draw or write a gift for anyone who can guess the event that happened when Mairon was young before I reveal it.
> 
> In addition to that, Irish is like, my third language and I started learning it on and off about two months ago. If Dubh Óg does not work the way I am intending it to, please please please correct me. The Chinese 小黑 (little black) does work as a name for a pet, but I don't know if it still works in Irish.


	2. How about no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added tags for child abuse ( *flat yay*), Eonwe, and Eru.

It had been a week since Mairon had found Dubh Óg in the alleyway, and the cat had settled in well. They had even established a routine. Mairon would wake up, get dressed, have his coffee, and look over whatever he needed for the store while Dubh Óg hung around, ate, and received pets. When Mairon had to go downstairs to open his shop, Dubh Óg would meow and brush around his legs and go downstairs with him. He had become a regular fixture in Mairon’s shop, to the point where many had jokingly called him a fairy cat. It was difficult for Mairon to maintain a smile, given his first death, but he did.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon was gift-wrapping a tarot deck for a very sweet young lady when he felt Eru Illuvatar enter his shop. The soft chime of the bell on his door was muted from the sheer power of his presence. Dubh Óg was nowhere to be seen, something that Mairon thought was for the best. 

Eru looked very much like Manwe. He had the same white-blond hair, but his eyes were steely grey and he was very fair skinned. Eru dressed in the manner of a well-off corporate official, always seen in neat, perfectly tailored suits. Mairon disliked him on principle, but wasn’t foolhardy enough to make it known.

“My son tells me that you’ve found Melkor.” Eru said mildly.

“Manwe told me he was very distraught at losing his brother.” Mairon said, equally mild. A single inflection could be misconstrued by Eru. It made talking to the man a nightmare.

“Can you not allow me to see the cat? Is it so hard for you to cooperate?” Eru asked, disappointed. “I love both my sons, surely you know that.”

While Mairon would’ve loved to respond in a cutting manner, he held his tongue.

“I’ve not brought anything up about your sons.” Mairon said politely. “And you have scared Dubh Óg away, so I can’t show him to you now even if I wanted to.”

“But he’s right here.” Eru said, his soft smile becoming threatening. He bent down and picked up Dubh Óg, who clearly tried to run. In Eru’s arms the cat proceeded to yowl and spit and twist violently in an attempt to escape.

Without thinking, Mairon managed to wrestle his cat away from Eru. Dubh Óg proceeded to dig his claws into the fabric of Mairon’s shirt and hold on for dear life. Mairon cradled the frightened cat to his chest and glared at Eru.

“I am certain that that cat is Melkor.” Eru said. “Give him to me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mairon spat. “My cat is terrified because of you! He near clawed your eyes out trying to get away from you.”

“Mairon, just give me the cat.” Eru said.

“Get out.” Mairon hissed. “Get out of my shop and leave my cat alone. How dare you just accost a person’s pet on a suspicion!”

Eru opened his mouth to say more but Mairon was having none of it, and activated the wards to shift Eru into the alleyway behind his shop. Dubh Óg still clung to Mairon’s shirt. Mairon sighed and pet the cat.

Dubh Óg stayed firmly attached to Mairon for the rest of the day. When customers asked, Mairon just told them that someone had picked up his cat and given the poor creature such a fright that he didn’t want to let go.

  
  


~~~

  
  


After that, Dubh Óg went into hiding and Mairon didn’t see him again for weeks. Many of his regular customers were very sad to hear that the fairy cat didn’t feel safe in the shop anymore.

  
  


~~~

  
  


It was on the one day that Dubh Óg felt secure enough to come downstairs to the shop again that Manwe decided to visit. Dubh Óg was in his favourite spot on the very top of the shelves behind the counter.

Manwe was clearly furious. He had even brought his son, the homunculus trailing behind him uncertainly. Despite being Mairon’s age, Eonwe had little life experience. As far as Mairon knew, he rarely interacted with people outside of his immediate family. He looked like a teenage Manwe and had looked that way for centuries. The jury was still out on whether he behaved like a teenage Manwe as well.

“If you are here about my cat, you can rest assured that he’s not Melkor.” Mairon said instead of his customary greeting. Manwe’s lips thinned into a sharp, pained smile.

“Oh, I’m just here to browse.” Manwe said. “I thought it would nice to treat Eonwe to something nice; he’s recently made great progress in his studies.” Eonwe sort of nodded. As far as Mairon knew, Eonwe had been studying something or the other for the last two centuries. Before that, there had been something about how he was a very frail, sickly thing and needed to stay indoors until he was hale. Mairon nodded and went back to his requisitions for the truly magical, looking for ones that would require significant heavy lifting on his part. 

Eventually, Eonwe found a nice tarot deck with abstract, modernist art. Manwe bought it for him. As the two were leaving, Manwe cast a glance over his shoulder that was filled with anger. Mairon turned to Dubh Óg.

“Just for the record, if you are Melkor, I don’t give a damn.” Mairon said frankly. “It’s bad that they’d just leave a cat out there, much less a person.”

Dubh Óg rolled onto his other side, facing the wall.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe and Melkor would be so fucked up. Favoritism done by the parents of children really screws up all children involved. Older than the Old Testament, that story.


	3. Fairies. Yay faeries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately does not contain real fairies.

It was a nice, peaceful afternoon on Sunday, Mairon’s day off. He was sitting with his laptop on the couch, Dubh Óg laying on his side with his back to Mairon’s leg. When Mairon saw the request for a fairy jewel, acquired from the King of the Ulster Sidhe, he almost rejected it. Almost, because it was Eru asking, and Mairon wanted to live. He’d turned down such requests from any and all who asked them, citing that he felt unsafe dealing with the aos sí.

But if Eru asked, Mairon had little choice. Eru wielded ridiculous amounts of influence in the magical world. If Mairon said no to him, he would ruin Mairon’s reputation.

Mairon set his laptop to the side and superstitiously found the iron nail, in its customary place tied to the headboard of his bed. 

It had held up well, for being from his youth. The iron showed faint hints of rust, but otherwise seemed perfectly serviceable. Mairon clenched it in his palm. Keep iron near the babe and the little folk shan’t be able to steal the child. Many people in his village, when heading beyond it, kept iron objects on them for protection from the fairies. 

It hadn’t done him much good when he’d fallen and the cord the nail was on had snapped.

Ever since his first death, he would always come back near the nail. Sometimes, his face would be a little different, sometimes he would take a few weeks, but he always came back, and always remembered what he should look like. It was then that he was named Mairon, although he still perfectly recalled his birth name, even though he didn’t use it very often. 

Mairon released the nail, and returned back to the couch. He gave Dubh Óg scritches between the ears, then sent his reply to Eru saying he would get a fairy jewel.

He closed his laptop and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the incoming headache. With his free hand, he petted Dubh Óg.

Mairon quietly mulled over who he’d trust to come in and take care of his cat. He could close the shop for a few days; it happened, and most people chose to come back later from his personal experience. Mairon sighed and grabbed his phone and called an old friend of his, from a very, very long time ago. He actually lived in the same city, even.

  
  


~~~

  
  


About an hour after Mairon had called, he was welcoming Gothmog into his apartment. Gothmog was another immortal, older than Mairon by a century or two. He was Middle Eastern and had come from a nomadic tribe. Mairon didn’t know much more than that, and Gothmog knew equally little about where Mairon was from. In magical society, such knowledge was a closely guarded secret, for it often tied into a person’s magic. Dubh Óg was being shy, as per usual, and sitting on Mairon’s bookshelves in the living room. 

After Mairon had told Gothmog what to do, they wandered into the living room to chat, as old friends who are at ease with each other do after long periods with little contact. His couch was situated in his living room so that one could see where Dubh Óg was if they were sitting on it. When Gothmog caught sight of the cat, he looked perplexed. 

“Mairon, I think you’re cat is Melkor.” Gothmog said.

“Not you too.” Mairon sighed. “I threw Eru out of my shop, threatened to permanently ban Manwe, then shut him down later when he brought his poor homunculus-child to guilt me into giving them my damn cat. My cat is not Melkor. That is final.” Gothmog, seeing that Mairon would not listen to anything about his cat being Melkor, decided that a change of subject was in order.

“Okay. So, how’d you find him?” Gothmog asked.

“Thank god.” Mairon sighed. “I found the poor bastard in a box, at night, in the alleyway behind my place. Like, who on God’s green earth just ditches their animal? And if he’s really Melkor, which I still think is all of you fuckers overreacting, its downright horrible that his own family would just leave him there. Either way, the cat stays with me.”

“You know, I think you’re doing good by him, Mairon.” Gothmog said.

“Thanks.” Mairon said. “There’s few who’d say that to me.”

“You’re picky.” Gothmog replied. “You’re not soft for everyone. You’d’ve been killed long ago if you were.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


Gothmog ended up staying for dinner, and Dubh Óg even came down from his spot on the shelf to investigate the food and receive generous amounts of petting.

Mairon, despite the creeping fear that was encroaching upon him at the thought of returning to where he was born, felt content. He knew it wasn’t to last.

After Gothmog had left, Mairon got to work. He had various bits of iron jewelry that he’d collected over the years and superstitiously hid all over his home.

Normally, he would have to find an object originating from his intended destination, but Mairon himself would do in this case.

Dubh Óg flitted around him anxiously. Mairon absently petted him, remembering the first time he had met the fair folk. It hadn’t been pleasant, he knew that much, though much of what happened was obscured in a haze of fey music, fairy wine, and bubbling, tittering laughter.

“I should only be away for a week.” Mairon said to Dubh Óg. “I’m sure you heard that Gothmog will be here to feed and water you and scoop your litter and other such things. And even if I’m gone for longer than that, he’ll still be coming round until I get back, so don’t worry about that. Am I missing anything?”

Dubh Óg gave Mairon a squinty cat face with his ears cocked back and looked mildly displeased.

“Oh, and the shop will be closed, so you’ll up stuck up here.” Mairon added. “I think that’s it.”

Mairon got up and went to bed, Dubh Óg following him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Melkor's point of view! (so I don't have an opportunity to incorrectly describe Ireland!)


	4. It's honestly been worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean yeah, I could've followed Mairon back to Ireland, or I could've given Melkor's POV.
> 
> I chose the second one, just for the record.

Mairon was gone before Melkor woke up, leaving only the faint scent of fire

Melkor had been turned into lots of animals. Usually he just died and came back human eventually. It was very weird, having free reign of a living space. His childhood had consisted of his father’s castle and what he could see out the windows. Even then, he was confined to certain areas of the castle. 

He was still anxious, but he was always anxious. It could have been worse. He had regular meals and there were no disapproving stares when he ate for too long. And Mairon was very nice. It was strange. Mairon just sort of let him loaf around.

He liked Mairon. 

He was worried for Mairon. Melkor didn’t know where he was or what he was doing but when his father had tried to take him back Mairon hadn’t let him. Melkor shouldn’t have been so glad to not have to return home, but he was scared now. Eru had a flawless public face but Melkor was his son. Melkor knew what he was like without it.

Melkor curled up on Mairon’s pillow and tucked his nose under his paw. He was always scared anyway.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The first morning that Mairon was gone, Melkor was waiting for Gothmog on the kitchen table. Melkor had met Gothmog one of the few times he managed to run away in Vienna. Gothmog had been part of a merchant caravan in Venice, bringing goods from faraway lands. They’d met entirely by coincidence. Usually the people he met trying to run sent him back to his father, but Gothmog believed him when he said that his father was horrible. When his father finally found him, it had been two days, which had been his longest escape attempt at the time. Ultimately, Gothmog had to give Melkor back.

It was a good run while it lasted, which made being turned into a firefly and being kept in a jar for a week worth it.

Gothmog quietly cleaned and washed the bowls and gave him food and water. After Mairon had decided that the store bought food was trash, he’d switched to homemade cat food, which, despite being cat food, was a good deal better than a lot of things he’d had to eat over the course of his life.

“I have to give it to you Melkor; there are worse people to be stuck with.” Gothmog told Melkor. Melkor was a cat at the moment, so he couldn’t speak, but he did meow in response.

“So, uh, how long do you think Mairon is going to wallow in denial?” Gothmog asked. Melkor’s ears flicked back because even if he did know, how was he supposed to tell Gothmog that? His magic never worked when he was a cat. Melkor supposed it was because it was a forced transformation rather than something he did to himself.

Gothmog, having hit the most awkward part of the conversation, waved goodbye and left. 

Melkor ate, drank some water, then took over the couch. He sighed. It was going to be a long week.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Gothmog stuck to a schedule, which was very nice. It was comforting to have a consistent source of food. Of all the times Melkor had been turned into a cat, this time was the best time.

If he was being honest, he hadn’t felt this safe since Eru had been married. His mother had always loved him and his stepmother had loved him as well. 

He still blamed himself for their deaths. But there was nothing he could do.

There never was.

Melkor sunk into his darker, self-loathing thoughts easily.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon was back before the week was over.

Melkor was sitting on the kitchen table when he got back, in perfect position to see if anyone was coming up the stairs into the apartment.

Mairon seemed strange, present but not really. His long red hair was falling out of its braid and his clothes were disheveled. He fished a large, egg-sized ruby out of his coat pocket and set it on the table, then draped his coat, slightly dusted with snow, across a chair at the kitchen table. Beneath his coat, he was dressed as he normally did, in a simple shirt and pants. 

He picked Melkor up, which immediately made Melkor uncomfortable. He hated being picked up, even though he liked to be held. Mairon held Melkor’s eyes level with his own. Melkor found himself staring into vacant gold-brown eyes. Mairon was talking but Melkor didn’t understand Irish at all.

It was very scary, the way he spoke softly, like he was soothing someone, even though there was something behind his eyes that was burning. 

Melkor wasn’t sure why Mairon decided to carry him to the bathroom and hold him up to the mirror, but he was saying something.

The mirror reflected Melkor’s true self, that of a black-haired fair young man with ice blue eyes. Mairon laughed a strange, fey laugh that was unsettling to Melkor.

But that strange, hollow madness that seemed to have seized him faded, and Mairon set Melkor down on the counter, apologized, and walked out.

Melkor hopped down and followed him.

Mairon had moved strangely quickly to the kitchen and was loosely holding the jewel in one hand, his head resting on the other. Melkor entered the kitchen and jumped onto the table and nudged Mairon.

“Why are you here?” Mairon asked. Melkor meowed.

“God, I’m a mess right now.” Mairon sighed, setting down the jewel and petting Melkor. “You must be frightened of me now. I shouldn’t have gotten your father his silly jewel. Nothing is worth seeing the fair folk again.”

Melkor meowed in agreement. He remembered the fair folk from when he was young too. Once, he had even caught a glimpse of a gleaming fairy hunt thundering across the sky.

“I should turn you back into a human, shouldn’t I? Not exactly fair to make you reliant on me.” Mairon mused. Melkor nudged him again.

“What, you agree with me?” Mairon asked. Melkor lazily swiped a paw at him.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Mairon sighed. “Meow once if I should turn you back, meow twice if I shouldn’t.”

Melkor meowed once. He could only spend so long as a cat before he started to go stir-crazy.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to do much research for this story, so even though I did write some yesterday, I was also researching stuff so I can have my facts right. I now know what county Mairon was from and Melkor's first language.


	5. No to this as well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw more Mairon background. Also, friendly reminder about the free one shot (with certain restrictions of course) if you guess a historical event during/around Mairon's youth that's affected him before I reveal some. There's multiple answers, so I guess there's multiple one shots on the table now?

After Mairon collapsed in bed, thoroughly exhausted from getting the fairy jewel, he slept for over twelve hours and only woke up because Gothmog, being the good friend he was, was coming by to feed Melkor.

“You’re back early.” Gothmog said. Mairon frowned.

“I am?” Mairon asked.

“Yeah, it’s only been five days.” Gothmog told him.

“Thank god.” Mairon sighed. “Could’ve been five years. Or five decades.”

“Well, since you’re back, I’m going to go now.” Gothmog said. “I promised I’d help Thuringwethil with her shenanigans and you know how she is.”

“Yeah yeah.” Mairon said, waving Gothmog away. “Go help Thuringwethil. Let me sleep.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


The next time Mairon woke up, Melkor was curled up next to him. The cat yawned.

“Good morning.” Mairon said, petting Melkor. The cat yawned and blinked sleepily, before shifting further next to Mairon. 

“I need to turn you back, but I’m not sure how.” Mairon told Melkor. “There’s so many ways to undo enchantments and curses and such. I think I’ll start with the simpler ones first.”

Melkor meowed.

“I really wish you could talk.” Mairon sighed.

Melkor meowed annoyedly.

“I bet you wish you could talk too. It must be frustrating for me to talk to you when you can’t respond.” Mairon muttured.

Evidently Melkor felt the same way, because he got up to tap Mairon’s head before settling back down.

Mairon checked the time. He wasn’t opening his store today, but he would be giving Eru his jewel later this morning.

He petted Melkor some more.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The first thing Mairon did after getting up for the second time was take a shower. Time was weird when it came to the little people, and Mairon had spent most of his time doing… something, to earn the jewel. He did not much remember anytime with those folk, nor did he care to.

When he was young, he had spent many days without the time to bathe daily. When he was older, he never stayed in one place too long, always being too troublesome, too bitter, to settle down. It had only been recently, compared to the span of his life anyways, that he stayed in one place. The first time he came to America, it was the latter half of the eighteen hundreds, and he lived in the New England area. He’d blended in with the refugees, and wondered about his little sister, who married an Englishman went across the sea. At the time, he had been furious, but when he’d come to America, Mairon no longer held that anger. He knew now why she couldn’t stay, and there was no point in holding petty anger against someone centuries dead.

Mairon wanted to tell her he was sorry, but the only one who would gain anything from it was him. He thought himself very selfish whenever he remembered her.

Melkor had not moved an inch after Mairon came out of the shower, nor did he move at all, save to twitch his ears back in a dissatisfied manner.

“I’ll be seeing your father soon.” Mairon told Melkor. “If you want, you can come down with me, but I won’t hold it against you should you choose not to come.” 

Melkor stood up and stretched, then hopped off the bed to circle around Mairon’s feet. He then jumped on to Mairon and made his way to sit on Mairon’s shoulders.

“Well, I suppose you’re coming with.” Mairon sighed affectionately.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Eru was waiting inside Mairon’s store, much to Mairon’s annoyance. The fairy jewel was neatly wrapped in plain brown paper. Mairon dropped it onto the store counter, where it landed with an innocuous, unceremonial clunk.

“The jewel. Payment, please.” Mairon said. Eru smiled apologetically and spread his empty hands.

“I’m afraid I’ve already paid.” Eru sighed. “I suppose I should’ve been more clear.”

“Do explain then.” Mairon said, tone growing sharp.

“Such jewels are effectively priceless, and I would never slight any of my children by putting a price on them.” Eru sighed, seeming very much like a sorrowful father. “So I’ll let you keep my son, and take this jewel. Though it cannot begin to replace the void that losing my eldest hath made.”

“Are you trying to say that you sold me your son?” Mairon hissed. “I’ve half a mind to spring over this here table and beat that cruel notion from your mind!”

Eru simply sighed, disappointed.

“Really Mairon, after that dreadful time you decided to be a terrorist in, oh, what was it, the nineteen hundreds I believe, I thought you’d put all this unbecoming violence all behind you.” Eru said. “Of course, I shouldn’t have expected better from a peasant, I suppose, and you’re not even that.”

“First you abandon your son, then you make a farce to say you’ve sold him, and now you dredge up both classism and racism? Do think we’re living in the eighteen-hundreds? We’re well after that,  _ my grace. _ ” Mairon said, putting the sort of sardonic loathing into Eru’s proper form of address that was born of centuries of being treated as lesser. “So now you’ve made have to ask you to kindly piss off and never come back.”

Eru laughed.

“Or?” He asked. “What could you, of all people, possibly do?”

In response, Mairon drew his sword, a plain thing from a time of myths and legends that warmed the very air around them. He leveled it at Eru, an unmistakable declaration that Mairon, while not exactly the ancient powerhouse that Eru was, was not a pushover by any means.

Eru teleported himself out. Mairon put his sword away, and reached up to pet Melkor.

“I bet you’ve a long history of running away.” Mairon sighed. “I don’t blame you.”

Melkor meowed in agreement.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, the scoreboard between Mairon and Eru is 2:1, respectively. Mairon has gotten rid of Eru twice, but Eru got him to treat with the little folk.


	6. Trade secrets up the wazoo, I suppose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding Varda as character tag!

After his encounter with Eru, Mairon’s hands were shaking. He could have died permanently. He wouldn’t put anything past Eru. Melkor was still draped around his shoulders like a fuzzy black stole.

Mairon was sitting at the kitchen table with a pen and paper.

“So, I’m making a list of ways to turn you back into a human.” Mairon said. “And you can tap the ones you think will work. I’ll mark those and try them first.”

Melkor hopped down from his shoulder to sit on the table.

Mairon began to write.

  
  


~~~

  
  


It wasn’t a particularly long list. It had the usual sorts of things, like getting the person who placed the curse to remove it or running water or sacred land, but Melkor had only tapped one option.

“You want me to kill you.” Mairon said flatly. “With a holy sword.”

Melkor nodded as best as a cat could nod.

“If I’m going to do that, I’ll at least want your respawn point.” Mairon said. “Do you think I could bribe Manwe into getting it for me? I’ll not try Eonwe; he’s far too clueless for such things.”

Melkor meowed. Mairon petted him.

“I think I’ll try your brother.” Mairon told him.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon sent off an email to Manwe that evening, surprised at the quick reply that he would have the object Mairon requested in one month. In his experience, Manwe’s wife Varda was the prompt one, and Manwe was the one who would lag behind. It was enough to make him mildly suspicious. 

Melkor meowed and settled onto Mairon’s lap, so Mairon pet him.

“Your brother is reasonable, I hope.” Mairon said. “And I promise I won’t judge you based on your respawn point. In the meanwhile, there’s a really pretty stream I want to take you to.”

Melkor’s ears cocked back.

“Unless you’d rather not?” Mairon asked.

Melkor nudged his arm.

“I guess we won’t go then.” Mairon said, and petted Melkor some more.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The month leading up to the meeting with Manwe was incredibly uneventful.

Mairon reopened his shop, agreed to celebrate Chinese New Year with Thuringwethil and Gothmog, and put the fairy jewel into a circle of salt and iron filings with a rosary on top just in case. This entire construction was in the middle of Mairon’s living room. Melkor had developed a habit of looking at the circle, then at Mairon, then back at the circle, then back at Mairon, to which Mairon would always respond with a shrug.

“The little folk are crafty.” Mairon had said, neglecting to elaborate further.

  
  


~~~

  
  


When the day of the meeting came around, Mairon had the shop officially closed. He and Melkor were waiting for Manwe to arrive, with Mairon behind the counter and Melkor on top of the shelves behind said counter. Mairon was reading, while Melkor was napping.

When the door opened, signaled by the gentle chime of a bell, Mairon looked up from his book expecting to see Manwe.

Certainly not Varda, of all people. He could’ve sworn that she loathed Melkor, what with how the rumours said she’d famously chosen the second brother after a whirlwind romance with the elder.

Varda was tall and pale, queenly in a way that hearkened back to centuries long since passed. Mairon knew her to always dress in the most timeless of fashions, only changing when absolutely necessary. She always looked professional and competent, never once appearing as anything but Manwe’s equal. 

She looked angry though, her every step up to the counter tense and sharp, her expression drawn, her eyes harder and colder than normal. Clenched in a white-knuckled fist was, at least to Mairon’s eyes, a bracelet or bangle of some kind. It was not until she carefully set the object down did he realize what it was.

A finely-crafted torc of twisted gold, the two terminals at each end tipped with a crow’s head.

“The item you requested.” Varda said.

“Pardon me for asking, but why have you come instead of your husband?” Mairon asked.

“My husband, while not outright malicious, does not ask questions that he should, and answers honestly and clearly questions that have answers best kept murky.” Varda said. “In other words, my husband trusts his father too much to do right by his brother.”

“I would not have expected that of you.” Mairon said, picking up the torc and sliding it onto the tops of the shelves where Melkor was before turning back to Varda. “But, that is not unwelcome, in this situation. Thank you, Varda.”

“You are welcome, Mairon.” Varda said. “I did, after all, steal this from my father-in-law.”

“How?” Mairon asked, incredulous.

“Trade secret.” Varda said. Mairon chuckled.

“Of course it is.” He replied. She nodded in acknowledgement and left.

Mairon turned back to Melkor.

“I really don’t want to kill you.” Mairon said.

Melkor meowed annoyedly.

“Look, I really don’t want to.” Mairon said again. “If I kill you, I’ll be a complete mess after. I won’t be able to be there when you come back. I don’t want you to come back alone. Are you sure there isn’t another way?”

Melkor hissed. Mairon sighed.

“I’ll have Gothmog watch for you until either you come back or I come back.” Mairon said, knowing full well that things were about to get messy.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mairon: I don't want to  
Melkor: *hissing because he doesn't want to cat anymore*  
Mairon: I'm gonna regret doing this


	7. Running away solves nothing, but feels better short-term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melkor! As a human!

_ -Melkor- _

Melkor knew that torc very well. A gift from his late mother, bequeathed to him on her deathbed. He would recognize it even if he remembered nothing of himself.

Back in the apartment, Mairon looked grim, and his eyes were hard and flat, unusually cold. He held his sword, the design of which Melkor found to be the same as when he was born. He suspected the sword to be older than Mairon.

Mairon had put the torc on his bed.

“I’ve always found it easiest to come back laying in bed.” Mairon said distantly. “It almost feels like waking up from a deep sleep.”

Melkor wouldn’t know; he’d never really come back like that before. Melkor took great care not to die whenever he could. He loathed being sprawled in pain on cold, hard flooring.

They were in the kitchen now. Mairon asked if he was ready, and Melkor had meowed and jumped onto the kitchen table.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when Mairon drew his sword. The blade set alight with just flames, but those same flames traveled down to set Mairon’s arms afire as well. Melkor knew how much pain he had to have been in, but Mairon showed nothing but cold resolve.

Quickly, Mairon swung, and Melkor supposed he died then, because he could discern nothing more.

  
  


~~~

  
  


_ -Mairon- _

  
  


Stopping his arms from burning was easy. He’d done the wrong thing. It had been wrong to kill Melkor. Gothmog had seen him on the way out and asked how he was. Mairon wasn’t quite sure what he said. 

He must’ve been out of himself for a while then. Mairon knows that he goes back and forth between wherever is his home and other places during those episodes. Generally, he’ll eat if he’s hungry and drink when thirsty, but otherwise he’s fairly strange.

Gothmog and Thuringwethil had both impressed upon him that such episodes were highly irregular, even among the strange magical underbelly of the world. Mairon generally knew how to avoid triggering them, and so was content to let it happen when he had to.

This time, he was sitting on a park bench staring at a lake in the dead chill of winter. Mairon hadn’t any sort of coat or jacket and he was starting to shiver a bit. His hands were fine. A little tender, but otherwise fine. He went to check the date on the phone before realizing that he’d left it back home. Mairon sighed and stood up to walk back.

On the walk back, he felt the urge to pick up his fiddle again, even though the poor instrument had been sitting in disuse for most of the nineteen-hundreds. Mairon decided that if Melkor hadn’t revived by the time he returned, he would while away the time with his fiddle.

He passed by familiar places; noting that he hadn’t wandered too far. Mairon still felt dread at the thought of returning though, so he took a right before his apartment to Thuringwethil’s tea house to buy something hot to drink before he went back home.

  
  


~~~

  
  


“Another one?” Thuringwethil said in lieu of greeting. Her tea house was a quiet place, well-lit, but private. The windows were reminiscent of the red chinese knots that were a staple of decoration. He knew for a fact that Thuringwethil had made each and every one of those knots by hand. 

Thuringwethil herself was proudly Han Chinese, despite how such knowledge would make it easy to discern her magic. Then again, the long history of China made such knowledge near useless, as neither Mairon nor Gothmog, two of her oldest friends, had any clue what sort of magic she employed. She also often insisted upon wearing hanfu. Most people didn’t ask questions, given that her tea house was very distinctive. Today, she wore black and red hanfu, and had styled her long hair into a simple braid. As far as he knew, Thuringwethil had never cut her hair.

Mairon elected not to respond to her, and took a seat at the counter. She patted his hand.

“I will make you tea.” She said. Mairon nodded. Thuringwethil never spoke with anything but a noticeable Chinese accent, despite Mairon knowing for a fact that she was perfectly capable of speaking without one.

As she made tea, Mairon rested his head on the table.

He looked up when a teapot and mug were set before him. Mairon sat up and poured a mug for both himself and Thuringwethil. The cups were very small to Mairon’s eyes, but Thuringwethil’s attitude was that the tea and the people went together.

“I killed Melkor.” Mairon said, staring at the tea in his cup.

“I know. Gothmog told me.” Thuringwethil said. “He will come back, like we all do.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel, Thuringwethil.” Mairon said. “Christ, it’s unfair for you that I come here and lay my sorrows at your feet.”

“You are not correct.” Thuringwethil replied. “If I do not want you to come to me, I do not let you come to me. Because you are my friend, I allow you to come to me.”

“Thank you.” Mairon said.

“There is no need to thank me.” Thuringwethil said, taking a sip of her tea. “Now, you look too thin. You should eat more.”

The age-old adage of any well-meaning grandmother made Mairon smile softly.

“Whatever pleases you, old madam.” Mairon said in jest. Thuringwethil chuckled.

“No matter what, you will return home with arm-load of food.” She promised with a playfully malicious glint in her eyes. Mairon chuckled and sipped at his tea.

Once he and Thuringwethil had finished the pot in amicable silence, Mairon went home.

  
  


~~~

_ -Melkor- _

  
  


Melkor had never come back to music before. He was lying in a bed, also a new way to come back, and he was remarkably uninjured. Whoever was playing violin was very good at it, but he wasn’t sure why they were playing polka. Nevertheless, it was very nice music, and Melkor wouldn’t dare complain anyway, and besides, Melkor liked it. He was still sluggish, still half-asleep, so he stayed in bed, listening as the lively polka ended and the violinist started up a sad tune. 

Melkor didn’t often listen to music, despite modern conveniences for it. Despite that, he loved music very much. 

After the sad tune finished, Mairon entered the bedroom.

“You’re back.” Mairon said. Melkor couldn’t place what sort of faint emotion was in his words.

“I am.” Melkor replied, sitting up. “I’m sorry, I should probably go back to my family.”

“If you so desire you may, though I would advise against it.” Mairon said evenly. Melkor barely stifled a yawn.

“I can tell you’re tired; go back to sleep and figure it out then.” Mairon said softly, going to close the curtains before leaving, shutting the door with nary a click behind him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: I'm going to be back in school the coming week, so updates will most likely slow down.


	8. Chapter 8

Mairon was sitting at his kitchen table, the light of the setting sun casting his apartment in orange-gold light, warm and inviting. For dinner, he’d decided to cook Chinese food. He’d learned how to from Thuringwethil, and in turn he’d taught her some recipes he remembered. Gothmog had joined in the cooking swap, so Mairon could now cook food from three different unique locales. 

Tonight, however, Mairon had cooked enough for two. It was all very simple, all things that could be cooked in either a wok or a pot. 

He saw that Melkor was awake again when Mairon noticed him leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom looking rather dizzy.

“Hungry?” Mairon asked. Melkor regarded him with distrust. Mairon took a bite of the rice.

“I assure you, the food is fine.” Mairon said. “I haven’t poisoned you yet, have I?”

“If you insist.” Melkor said, coming to the kitchen to get his portion of the rice. Mairon had already set out a plate and chopsticks for him.

Melkor sat down and sat with his hands folded in his lap. Mairon realized Melkor probably didn’t know how to use chopsticks.

“Right.” Mairon breathed, reaching over the table grab the chopsticks. “My apologies.” 

Mairon put the chopsticks back and fetched Melkor a fork.

“Gothmog, Thuringwethil, and I have done far, far too much together, and I rarely have guests.” Mairon said. “That reminds me. Chinese New Year is soon, and I’ve promised Thuringwethil that I would celebrate with her. Would you like to come?”

Melkor tried the spicy fish in lieu of answering.

“Why is my mouth slightly numb?” Melkor asked. Mairon smiled, remembering his far less tame reaction when he’d first tasted what Thuringwethil affectionately called ‘málá’.

“So, this is Chinese cooking, but China has a lot of very regional flavors.” Mairon said. “And the Sichuan region is well known for this kind of numb and spicy flavor. It comes from the Sichuan peppercorns.”

“Ah.” Melkor said, taking another piece of fish. “It tastes good.”

“Thank you.” Mairon said, taking a piece of fish as well. “Although, Thuringwethil cooks it best.”

“I’ve met her and Gothmog before.” Melkor told him.

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Mairon replied. “They’re older than I.”

Melkor nodded, and they both went back to eating.

  
  


~~~

  
  


A week had passed, with which Mairon had discreetly added another room to his apartment via very, very useful magic that worked in whatever his home was, and now there was but one day left until Chinese New Year. Mairon noted that Melkor spent most of his time sleeping or out. It concerned Mairon, but at the same time, Mairon was worried about prying. The only thing that prevented Mairon from fretting overmuch was that Melkor always came home in time for dinner.

Tonight, Mairon had cooked Chinese food again. Melkor had quickly learned how to use chopsticks, something that made Mairon surprisingly happy. Melkor came off a very cold and stoic. Given Mairon’s dealings with his father and brother, Mairon guessed that Melkor was neither emotionless or callous, but rather emotionally withdrawn.

“Shall you celebrate Chinese New Year?” Mairon asked. “Shan’t pressure you if you’d rather not come.”

“How many people with be there?” Melkor asked.

“Oh, only me, Thuringwethil, and Gothmog.” Mairon said. “You can rest assured that the guest list shan’t change.”

“Okay.” Melkor said.

“Thuringwethil and Gothmog won’t mind you there, if that worried you.” Mairon said. Melkor nodded and pushed at the food left on his plate before declaring that he was full.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The next evening, Melkor floated anxiously around the living room while Mairon noodled on his fiddle.

“Why are you bringing your violin?” Melkor asked.

“Because Thuringwethil and I are going to play together after dinner.” Mairon answered, loosening his bow and packing his instrument into the case.

Melkor continued to pace about in his subtle, not quite pacing but still anxious.

“You were playing violin when I came back.” Melkor said.

“I was.” Mairon answered. Melkor paused, considering his words.

“You play well.” Melkor said eventually.

“Thank you.” Mairon said. “There will certainly be more of it tonight.”

Melkor nodded.

Mairon checked the time, seeing that it was about time to leave.

“Ready to go?” Mairon asked Melkor. Melkor shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for lots of Chinese culture in the next chapter because it's Chinese New Year!


	9. A home built up over centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! High school started, I was super tired. All honors/AP is exhausting, but the GPA and transcript is worth it, provided I pass.

Mairon has always found Thuringwethil to be prodigious at making a space uniquely hers. Like Mairon, she lived above her place of work, her teahouse. Unlike the near-artificial decorations of her teahouse, Thuringwethil’s home was more natural in its decorations. There was a shrine with incense in the corner, and a few careful ink paintings and one piece of calligraphy that bore a surname. Mairon thought it was Thuringwethil’s, but he had never asked before.

Melkor had trailed slightly behind Mairon, and seemed somewhat in awe of the massive amounts of food that Thuringwethil had cooked. The dining room table seemed as though it should be creaking under the weight of the feast she had prepared. From previous New Year’s feasts, Mairon recognized jinyuanbao, fish, and several different kinds of dumplings. Of course, that what but a fraction of what Thuringwethil had made.

“What do you think of it?” Mairon asked Melkor. Melkor paused before answering.

“I think it to be very… grand.” He said finally. Mairon smiled.

“I think it to be so too.” Mairon said.

Thuringwethil smiled from her seat near the head of the table. To her left, Gothmog sat with a cup of tea.

“Of course it is.” She said. “Now come eat and celebrate new year.”

It turned out that Melkor had little to no experience with Chinese food, while Mairon and Gothmog had been celebrating Chinese New Year with Thuringwethil annually ever since their pirating days had ended. Over the years, the feast had grown more and more authentic to Thuringwethil’s memories as the world had shrunk. Mairon still sometimes thought that buying fruit from Thailand fresh in markets in America was devilry, even though he had been alive to see society grow to such a point.

Nevertheless, it was plain that Melkor was not uncomfortable at Thuringwethil’s table.

After dinner, Mairon and Thuringwethil played music together. He fiddled while she played erhu, and they played music from both the east and the west while Gothmog and Melkor sat to the side, chatting and enjoying the music.

It was a good night, ending with many rounds of mahjong and several card games at three in the morning and a very tired Mairon and Melkor walking back home, still lighthearted, still merry.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Sometimes, things didn’t last long.

Mairon woke up later than usual to an absolutely miserable looking Melkor. He was curled up on the couch in a blanket cocoon and staring blankly into the distance. Mairon sat down on the other side of the couch.

“What is it?” Mairon asked. Melkor frowned.

“I don’t know.” Melkor said. “I’ve never had such an informal feast before.”

“It was very informal.” Mairon agreed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Melkor answered.

“Alright.” Mairon said. “Since I’ve just woken up and haven’t started cooking yet, is there anything you want for breakfast?”

“Something hot.” Melkor said distantly.

Mairon made oatmeal, because it was easy and warm and while he had enjoyed last night’s festivities, he was not immune to exhaustion. Resurrective immortality and invulnerable immortality were two different things.

“How do you like your oatmeal?” Mairon asked from the kitchen.

“What can I have in it?” Melkor replied.

“I’ve got at least milk and honey, but I think I’ve also some cinnamon and almonds if you like them.” Mairon said.

“Oh.” Melkor said, seeming dully surprised. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever really been asked that.”

“If you can’t choose, that’s okay.” Mairon told him.

“Pick for me.” Melkor told him.

Mairon made Melkor’s bowl just as he preferred his own and brought everything to the couch to eat.

Melkor’s hands slunk out from beneath the blanket and took the proffered bowl, a spoon plopped in with the oatmeal.

“I think I’ll take the day off today.” Mairon said. 

“Why?” Melkor asked around a mouthful of food.

“Immortal I may be, but immune to exhaustion I am not.” Mairon replied. “And I want to go out and show you some of my favourite places in the city, if you’re feeling up to it. I’ve lived in this very apartment since the eighteen-fifties, although then it wasn’t nearly as nice.”

“Why did you come here?” Melkor asked. 

“Well, if I’m to be honest, Gothmog, Thuringwethil, and I were pirates before we decided to quit because we were running out of places that wouldn’t kill us on sight. Gothmog and Thuringwethil went to America, I went back to my home country.” Mairon said, fondly remembering those shenanigans. “But she had fallen so far from the land of my youth that I could no longer bear to stay, so I too went to America. I’ve been here since.”

“You three were privateers?” Melkor asked. Mairon shook his head.

“Pirates, really.” Mairon answered. “Damn if it wasn’t fun, but pirating’s died off really, and I’ve got myself a comfortable life here.”

There was a lull in the conversation as they both finished eating.

“I do want to see the city with you.” Melkor said.

“Let me wash everything up and get dressed properly, and we can go.” Mairon said, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume this is just some random decently-large American city with sizable immigrant populations.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon a shift in writing style; I've just read mo dao zu shi and scum villain in less than the span of a week, so whoops writing's shifted and I have an urge to work on the xianxia au.

Melkor felt a little awed by how well Mairon knew the city. They would walk and Mairon would do most the talking because Melkor wasn’t sure how.

Sometimes, Mairon would point at a part of the town so opulent it made Melkor disdainful and tell Melkor that when he first stepped off the ship, it was rowhouses and factory workers, all poor immigrants, sometimes Italian, sometimes Irish, sometimes Chinese, sometimes Jewish, although Mairon mentions that he wasn’t in America during World War One and Two. When Melkor asked him why, Mairon had asked him to refrain from broaching that subject.

So they walked, and Mairon did the talking, and they ate lunch in Chinatown, in a small shop run by an old grandmother and grandfather who didn’t see their family nearly as much as they’d like to. They greeted Mairon warmly, and even extended that same warmth to Melkor. 

He didn’t understand Mandarin, but the old woman said something warm and fond that made Mairon burst into laughter.

Over lunch, Melkor learned that the grandmother had said that he reminded her of her son, the one who went to be a history major back in China because he wanted to remember his roots. 

After lunch, it was more fascinating stories of the city that Mairon had watched grow and change over the decades.

But Melkor wondered and wondered why Mairon had been gone during the twentieth century if he cared for the place so dearly. Maybe it was for a place he loved more.

Melkor wasn’t sure, and he wanted to know but hadn’t a clue how to ask, so he trailed behind Mairon, a little shadow nipping at his heels, despite being the taller of the two.

  
  


~~~

  
  


They did not go out to eat in the evening, Mairon instead electing to eat at home. Truthfully, Melkor preferred it this way, the long stretches of time in an unfamiliar place starting to make him anxious.

Curled up on the couch, absently tapping a rippling pattern with his fingers, Melkor watched as Mairon checked the fridge and pantry.

“How do you cook?” Melkor asked. “I’ve never really learned.”

Mairon looked a bit confused at that, but he quickly waved Melkor over.

“You can be my line chef.” Mairon said, pulling out a cutting board and some green beans. “I’ll cut one so you can see how big I want the pieces.”

Mairon demonstrated, then left Melkor to his own devices while he worked on cutting the beef into small pieces.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Dinner came out well; Mairon had plenty of praise for Melkor’s cutting skills, and once Mairon had learned that Melkor was good enough at it, he’d had Melkor cut everything for him, saying that dinner would come out faster.

“I’ll make a cook of you yet.” Mairon said cheerily. 

Melkor flushed.

“I doubt it.” He replied, turning his face away for shame.

“If you challenge me, it’ll only make me try harder.” Mairon said warmly.

“No amount of work is going to make me as good a cook as you.” Melkor said back.

Mairon just smiled and kept eating.

It wasn’t a bad smile, just warm and encouraging.

  
  


~~~

  
  


It had been a month since Varda had brought Melkor’s torc.

Mairon had opened up shop again, once more doing business with the magical and mundane alike. He’d even added tarot readings after his break. When Melkor asked him way, Mairon said he just felt like it.

One day, on a whim, he’d asked Mairon to do a reading for him.

“Why?” Mairon asked, looking up from his book.

“I don’t know.” Melkor said.

“Then I don’t know what to look for.” Mairon responded, closing his book. “Fortune telling is like scrying: you have to know what you’re looking for, otherwise it’s all a mess or doesn’t work.”

“Oh.” Melkor replied. “I’ve never heard it said that way. I only hear that fortune telling is the domain of charlatans.”

“Yes and no.” Mairon said. “It’s easy for mortals to pick up, so most of those who frequent the esoteric look down on it, but in the right hands, it’s just as powerful as the most arcane of mysteries.”

Mairon went to open his book but paused, looking thoughtful.

“I’ve never read the future more than once anyway.” He said wistfully. “It only hurt me, in the end, to know that.”

Melkor wondered what ‘that’ was.

Mairon went back to reading.


	11. At this point, the 'mad' and 'genius' parts have just blurred to being 'mad'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squints so much that eyes do a disappear* well now that there chaste, platonic hug looks like the blossoming start to romance

As far as customers went, Feanor was rather noteworthy, to put it nicely.

Mairon had no idea why he had that many sons. He was a bit too afeared of what he may hear from Feanor to ask.

When Feanor entered the room, he was impossible to miss. He just had presence to him that drew the eye. WIth his long, black hair in the messiest of messy braids and his dark eyes wide with some sort of paranoid, creative fervor, Feanor strode up to the counter.

“I need a fairy jewel.” Feanor said. “I have a project.”

Mairon pursed his lips.

“Those are not easy to acquire.” Mairon said. 

“I know.” Feanor responded, oddly dreamy for someone with a raging inferno burning in their eyes. “I will have nothing but.”

As far as Feanor’s requests went, a fairy jewel was not particularly weird. That honor went to the tears of the sun during Mid-Autumn Festival. Nevertheless, while Mairon had a fairy jewel, he would not part with it easily.

“And what do you have to pay for it that I want?” Mairon asked.

Feanor’s brows furrowed.

“What do you want?” He asked. 

Mairon laughed, a soft, disappointed thing.

“Nothing you could give me.” Mairon replied. “But I do deal in bargains in favors.”

“I will not be beholden to you.” Feanor snarled.

“‘Tis your loss then.” Mairon said cooly. “If that’s all, get on with you.”

With an expression bitter enough to curdle milk, Feanor turned on heel and stormed out.

Mairon sighed, rolled his eyes, and prepared himself for the inevitability of Feanor angrily ending up owing Mairon a favor.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Fifteen minutes before closing, Melkor slipped downstairs into the shop.

“You deal with Feanor?” He asked, a strange sort of intensity in his eyes.

“I deal with any who can and will pay.” Mairon said.

Afterwards, there was a long silence.

“I’ve met him before.” Melkor said eventually. “Whatever he does, my father’s condemnation shortly follows.”

“Strange that I’ve never really been caught up in it.” Mairon mused. Melkor didn’t seem surprised.

“My father, last I knew, thought you to be too useful to him to make an enemy of you.” Melkor said. “You are good at finding things. Few others are.”

Mairon shrugged.

“It was a gift.” Mairon said. 

“For what?” Melkor asked, seeming innocently curious.

“Not dying, I suppose. Perhaps with a touch of being very interesting.” Mairon said nonchalantly, belying the soft horror of those times. “It is hard to tell with fairies.”

Melkor frowned. Mairon shrugged.

“Since you’re down here, why don’t you help me close the shop?” Mairon said. 

With Melkor’s help, he took half the time he normally would.

  
  


~~~

  
  


After dinner, Mairon was relaxing on the couch, nursing the headache that had come from the thought of the even greater headache he would get extracting his payment from Feanor. How Nerdanel stood him enough to marry the madman was beyond Mairon, but then again, maybe he was very good in bed. 

Melkor was sitting on the couch as well, awkwardly sitting as close as he possibly could to Mairon without touching him.

“Do you like hugs?” Mairon asked him. Melkor stared at him, lips pursed.

“What’s it to you?” Melkor said, affecting an air of sullenness.

“You look very sad sitting as close as you can without touching me.” Mairon said. “You’ve been living here for several months; if I had issue with you, I’d have kicked you out already.”

Melkor relaxed and leaned against Mairon. Mairon wrapped an arm around Melkor and they sat like that quietly. Melkor’s icy aura extended to his body temperature; Mairon found him to be rather cold to the touch.

“I have this overwhelming sense of dread.” Melkor said. “Something is going to happen soon. I dreamed that you were stabbed. Don’t fight anyone.”

“You are a seer?” Mairon asked.

“I suppose so.” Melkor said. “Whatever your next battle is, I cannot see you winning it through force.”

Mairon could feel it in him that Melkor was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, soft fluffy happy over, time to get back to sad sad sadness


	12. That wonderful sense of dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for Eru's underlying ~1800's racism and attitudes towards mental health

The next week, Mairon woke up to a bad feeling. His sleep, sometimes haunted by dreams of the past, had featured a particularly vivid dream of his own death, on the floor of his shop, a stab wound in his chest.

In the morning, he found Melkor staring intently out the window that overlooked the street in front of Mairon’s home.

“You should be careful today.” Melkor said, grim and intense. 

Mairon was reminded of a time, ages upon ages ago, when he had glimpsed a man, who must have been Melkor, on a street in Liverpool, staring at the ships about to set sail full of colonists to the New World with the same sort of intensity that he looked out upon the street with now. The pure, visceral knowing in that gaze of doom had made Mairon switch which ship he stowed away on, and later, he found out that the same ship Melkor had been looking at was lost at sea.

“I will be.” Mairon replied. “If you see anyone suspicious, go to Thuringwethil.”

“If you die, you’ll come back in a place that has been conquered.” Melkor replied. 

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Mairon breathed, running back to his bedroom to grab his iron nail. On second thought, he also retrieved the fairy jewel to put it with his other dangerous items.

He handed it to Melkor.

“Take this with you.” Mairon said. “If you run, that is.”

Melkor frowned, studying it.

“Did you dream it too?” He asked.

“My own death, you mean?” Mairon said, tone irreverent to hide his rising dread. “Yeah. I have to go now. Remember, suspicious person, go to Thuringwethil. Get out using the fire escape.”

Melkor nodded as Mairon rushed downstairs to open up the shop.

  
  


~~~

  
  


While the morning passed uneventfully with a few customers, all of whom found something to buy, Feanor reappeared in his subtlety bombastic way before noon.

“I take your bargain, foul dealer of power.” Feanor spat.

“For someone who’s about to sell me an unlimited, one-time use favor, you really like testing your luck.” Mairon said mildly. “Follow me.”

Mairon led Feanor to the backroom and bade him take a seat at the lone table.

As usual, the room extended back farther than it should, and the shelves were lined with various objects. Mairon strode towards the fairy jewel and took it from the shelf.

“It is this you want, correct?” Mairon asked, lifting the jewel.

“Spare me your time-wasting inanities.” Feanor grumbled, turning his head to the side impetuously. However, his gaze slid to the jewel before his softly spat his assent that the jewel held aloft in Mairon’s hand was the right jewel.

Mairon returned to the table and took his seat across from Feanor, farthest from the door.

“Extend your arm to me.” Mairon said. Feanor did so, albeit reluctantly.

“In exchange for this fairy jewel, do you offer me one favor, without restrictions, as payment?” Mairon asked.

“Yes.” Feanor said.

“You are aware that is is one jewel and one favour?” Mairon asked.

“Yes.” Feanor said.

“And you are fully aware that this bargain will be marked upon your flesh until the price of one favor for one fairy jewel has been met, and there will be no time at which you can refuse me my favor?” Mairon asked.

Feanor hesitated, knowing that if he answered in the affirmative for the third time, the deal would be sealed and unbreakable. Finally, he spoke.

“Yes.” He said.

Mairon traced the pattern of an eye onto Feanor’s wrist.

“It is done.” Mairon said. “Take the damn jewel. At least you’re paying for it.”

Feanor picked up the jewel, enraptured with it. Then, he parsed what Mairon had said.

“Who would think to take from you, of all people, without paying?” Feanor asked, a note of incredulity in his voice.

“It wasn’t that Eru said he wouldn’t pay, it was that he was trying to…” Mairon began, only to stop. “Nevermind, that’s none of your concern.”

“Everyone in the mystic world has standards and principles.” Feanor said. “I suppose that one of your’s is that you do not trade in flesh?”

Mairon sighed.

“Something like that.” Mairon said. “Now, get on with you.”

Feanor took his cue to leave and left.

  
  


~~~

  
  


After lunch, Mairon was quietly minding his shop when he heard the doorbell chime. He looked up to see Eru striding purposefully into his shop.

“It is time for you to return my son.” He said sharply, black-gloved hands resting threateningly on the counter. Mairon stepped back sharply, sword but half a breath away from screaming into existence spitting flame.

“I think it is Melkor’s business as to whether he goes with you or not.” Mairon said. Eru tsked disappointedly. 

“My son suffers from maladies of the mind best handled by his family.” Eru said in the manner of a concerned parent. “He must be isolated for his own safety.”

“In his time with me, Melkor has been withdrawn and quiet, but not dangerous.” Mairon replied. “If he wanted to go back to your home, I think he would’ve by now. I let him go where he wills, and if he’d wanted to leave, I certainly wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“I will give you one last chance to bring my son here before I do so myself.” Eru said quietly. “I am very worried what spending time with ill-bred savages such as the company you keep will do to my son.”

“You are well behind the times.” Mairon said coldly, drawing his sword. The blade lit with flames, the righteous anger focused upon the perceived oppressor from across the sea.

“Know that you made me do this.” Eru sighed regretfully.

With a sharp crack much like that of a lash, Mairon staggered back, a hole blown clean through his chest. 

Another, shaking step back had him against the wall.

He tried to draw in breath, and looked down to see that he was missing most of his upper torso before looking back up at Eru, pure fury writ across his face.

Then, Mairon slid down the wall, dead.

  
  


~~~

  
  


_ Melkor heard the unmistakable crack and ran.  _

_ The fire escape led to the alley behind Mairon’s store. The same alley that was but a five minute sprint from Thuringwethil’s tea house. _

_ Melkor went as fast as he could without drawing suspicion, the normally uplifting hints of spring making the day even more grim. _

_ He burst into Thuringwethil’s tea shop and, heedless of the few customers inside, told her what happened. _

_ Her face turned hard and cold. _

_ “Everyone out. I’ve received news that leaves me without the heart to continue service. Find service elsewhere until I reopen.” She commanded, sounding like a warrior-queen from when Melkor was young. _

_ Reluctantly, her customers all left. A few regulars sent her sympathetic nods. _

_ Once everyone was gone, she bade Melkor close the shop and start cleaning up while she dialed Gothmog. _

_ Melkor released the iron nail from his white-knickled fist, dropping it with a clink onto the counter. _

_ “Gothmog is coming.” Thuringwethil said, tone unreadable to Melkor. “We have some planning to do.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing is for the intelligent and I am young, dumb, and lazy.


	13. That is a very bad sign

It was when Gothmog arrived, after the tea shop had been cleaned up, that Thuringwethil spread, with a swish of her butterfly-sleeves, a magical map of the city and the surrounding area. There were little apparitions moving on its surface, indicating important magical personages. Melkor could spy Feanor and Nerdanel in a suburb outside of the city, while he, Gothmog, and Thuringwethil were in one spot within the city. In the countryside at the edge of the map were Varda, Manwe and Eonwe, while Eru was moving within the city. Melkor placed the iron nail on the table, next to the map.

Melkor squited, seeing a faint energy clinging the Eru’s apparition.

He knew exactly what his father was planning, It had happened to him before.

“The real problem is what to do when Mairon comes back.” Thuringwethil said, a folding fan painted with the autumn moon over the Han palace covering the lower half of her face.

“No.” Melkor said. “He won’t. My father is…”

“He can’t come back without his object.” Gothmog said.

“My father is the progenitor of the magical realm in this world. You two are too young to have lived in the time before the magical and mundane were separate, but when I was born, ‘twas true that there were little folk in the wood, ‘twas true that the Wild Hunt would snatch up mortal souls caught a-watching.” Melkor said. “Have you not wondered why the Fair Folk hide in their forts or why qilin, even though they are rare, none have been truly seen in millenia? The mystical has been removed from the mundane, concentrated in loci of power separate from existence.”

“Why?” Thuringwethil asked.

“You believe me?” Melkor said, incredulous. “Few would now.”

“Mairon let you stay in his home.” Gothmog told him. “You’ve earned my trust with that.”

“I cannot speak yet as of why my father has chosen to twist the world thus. But hear this now: Mairon will not return to his nail.” Melkor said ominously, finding his strength of yore, when he went across the sea and became a king through might and valor. “Look at the flicker on my father’s projection.”

Gothmog and Thuringwethil looked to the projection and saw that Mairon’s energy clung to it.

“You said that Mairon wouldn’t come back at his nail?” Gothmog asked, seeking confirmation. Melkor nodded. Thuringwethil’s brows furrowed.

“My initial plans are flawed.” Thuringwethil murmured. “I do not know what tactics Eru uses. I have not fought him before.”

“I have.” Melkor said softly. “I know what he would be doing.”

“We go to war against the most powerful being in the magical world now, don’t we?” Gothmog asked, vaguely vicious and maliciously gleeful.

Melkor tossed his head back and laughed, a carrion crow’s cackling caw, feeling vibrant in a way he hadn’t in a very long time.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon awoke with a splitting headache to the sound of water dripping onto stone.

The air smelled damp and moist, like there hadn’t been a single breath of fresh air in the area in centuries. As his vision slowly became clear and the world stopped spinning, he realized he was in a pillory, much like he had been in before, when he was far younger.

“You finally awaken.” Eru said, reclining in a Victorian chair a good two or three yards in front of Mairon.

Mairon cast his gaze around to inspect the room as best he was able. It was a barren stone basement that leaked here and there. To the best of Mairon’s knowledge, it was intentional and for atmosphere and effect.

“Stabbing does take some recovering from.” Mairon said conversationally. “Or it is exploding? One of the two.”

“Ah, explosions, something one such as yourself would be well-versed in, of course.” Eru replied, lazily calling a glass of wine to his hand, which slowly materialized in a shower of light. Eru took a sip, the rich red liquid seeming much like blood in colour to Mairon’s eyes.

“That is not something I care to hear from your mouth.” Mairon spat. “Those far more dear to my heart have spoken to me at great length about my flaws and sins, and are more persuasive than you.”   
  


Eru chuckled.

“How spirited you are.” He said. “My most prodigal son was spirited in much the same way. It is a pity that he has lost it and does not care to find it. It saddens me to see such willful behavior.”

“Have you ever considered that Melkor acts like that because you’ve traumatized him?” Mairon asked. 

Eru did not very much like that statement at all.

“I should have you whipped.” Eru snapped. He took a long and deep sip of wine.

“In fact, I will.” He declared. “The first thing I do after I get my son back will be to drag you to his rooms and whip you to death.”

“Do be sure to eat a hearty meal, maybe take a drink or two even.” Mairon said cheekily. “It may take awhile.”

Eru flung the wine in his glass strait onto Mairon.

“Vagrant, impoverished trash.” Eru hissed. “You’re lucky that my son likes you.”

“Oh, so now you care about his likes?” Mairon drawled.

Eru pulled back, serenely aghast.

“Everything I do, I do for his well being!” Eru declared. “I love both my sons dearly; all I want are their happiness. I try and try to help Melkor, don’t you understand? I have tried to take him new places, tried to give him the finest things that life could offer, let him learn whatever he wanted to, but to no avail!”

“Maybe he wants his freedom.” Mairon said mildly. “He seems to like coming and going as he pleases.”

“I tried that once.” Eru said, bitter and sad, his previous flame and fury gone. “He made war and sought to kill me for it.”

“Why?” Mairon asked. “Why do you think he did that?”

Eru stood, the chair disappearing into the same light the glass of wine came from.

“I suppose he thinks my protection too stifling.” Eru said mournfully. “But what else can I do?”

He left, a door in the previously empty wall behind where he had been sitting appearing for him. After he left, the door was gone, and Mairon, still in the stocks, was left alone with his questions.


	14. Lets get down to buisness to storm a castle

After Eru left, Mairon’s first order of business was figuring out if he could get out of these particular stocks the same way he usually got out of them. Mairon had always been a small, wiry person who was very able at ferreting in and out of situations. He was currently going to pretend that he hadn’t gotten good at getting out of stocks because he kept getting in them. 

Unfortunately, the stocks had been magicked shut. As far as Mairon’s searching fingers could tell, there was no physical lock.

Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t get out. There was always a way to pick a lock, no matter whether it was a tangible or intangible lock.

To his surprise, there was no lock, magical or otherwise.

Mairon’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped. The emptiness of the room began to close in on him, and he closed his eyes. He was trapped, well and truly trapped, with no distant promise of release to provide even scant succor to his solemn soul.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Melkor felt exhilarated, leaned over a map, weight braced on one hand as the other traced pathways through the city to his father’s latest countryside residence.

Like most of the stately prisons his father called homes, his father’s current manse was in an older, dignified style. It was grand, hearkening back to Victorian England in its aesthetics and decoration. It was out-of-place in the states, and, had it belonged to anyone but his father, had it existed in an earlier age, it would’ve been a well-known feature of the city. Nevertheless, it was his father’s, it existed in an age where eccentricity was lauded, and so it passed beneath the notice of the city.

“Because we will do the unpredictable, so we will succeed.” Thuringwethil hummed. “I am reminded of my campaigning days. Let’s send him Feanor. He is easily swayed when his art is brought into question. A few insinuations that Eru has insulted his work will send him into a rage.”

“What about his wife?” Gothmog asked. “Nerdanel is a calming influence on him.

“Have him insult her work as well.” Thuringwethil said. “Imply he thinks of them as amateur posers. Also imply he insulted their family and that he thinks having children has made them soft.”

“Of course you throw a tempest into their path.” Gothmog sighed affectionately. 

“I like your plan.” Melkor said. “Audacious of you to send Feanor and Nerdanel to his door.” 

Thuringwethil grinned, a sharp, cunning thing.

“They’ll hate that chase we’ll send them on, ah.” Thuringwethil replied. “While he makes a ruckus at Eru’s front door, you’ll sneak us inside.”

“Yes. I know the lay of the house well.” Melkor murmured. “It’s changes are predictable. With our small force, navigation shouldn’t be too much of an issue.”

“Is the basement complex?” Thuringwethil asked.

“Not particularly. But it changes most frequently.” Melkor replied. “And it is the most fortified. My father puts things that he does not want escaping there.”

“So, that’s where Mairon is probably going to be.” Gothmog said.

“We nevertheless will prepare for him to be in other parts of the building.” Thuringwethil replied.

“Of course.” Melkor said. “How do I give this a new map?”

“Oh!” Thuringwethil said, apologetic. “You just lay a hand flat in the middle and imagine the place, and the map updates.”

Melkor did as she said.

Thuringwethil stared intently at the new map.

“A maze.” She said, after a fair bit of deliberating. “And one that changes?”

“It does. I’ll have to find a way in when we get there.” Melkor confirmed.

“How will we make sure we don’t get lost?” Gothmog asked.

“Mark the rooms?” Thuringwethil suggested. “Since they change, it won’t leave a trail.”

“That’ll make the rooms easy to mark.” Melkor mused. “I’ve only know the doors to open to new places, not for rooms to change their style.”

“What will we mark them with, then?” Gothmog posed. “We can’t bring in supplies; I’m assuming this involves traveling light to minimize moving parts.”

“I have my dao.” Thuringwethil replied.

“I had the proper armaments of a warrior in my youth.” Melkor also replied. “I hope they haven’t been melted down. It’s been a long while since I have been allowed the uncertainty and danger of battle. If we see them along the way, I’m taking them with me.”

“Okay.” Gothmog said calmly. “What were these armaments?”

“Many.” Melkor said stubbornly. “And they are mine and you can’t have them.”

“We are not in the business of stealing.” Thuringwethil said firmly. “What else do we need to consider?”

“I think that’s all.” Melkor replied.

“I’m jittery, ah!” Thuringwethil exclaimed, rubbing her hands together. “I get to be fearsome general again instead of tea-shop lady!”

“Fearsome general?” Melkor asked.

“I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours.” Thuringwethil said.

“Forget I asked, then.” Melkor replied flatly, previously energized mood gone at the remembrance that he would never be the same person as he was those centuries ago.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Eru came back after an indeterminate amount of time had passed.

In the blank room, seconds could be minutes could be hours could be days could be weeks or months or years. They slurred together like the words of a drunk until they were one hazy, sharp mess.

“How long, do you think, before my son comes back?” Eru asked. He sounded much like Mairon’s father had when his two older brothers joined the army to fight against the English for a better life for their family. 

“I don’t know.” Mairon replied. “Why do you care? You’ve thrown him into the cold many a time before from what I know, and I’ve seen him try and run from you.”

“My son requires drastic measures for discipline.” Eru sighed.

“My family was a lot rowdier and vulgar than yours and my father never hit no child of his.” Mairon said, incensed. “He was never much mad at us either, save for when Aoife went and married an Englishman. Even then, he never hit her. He was just sad to see her go to a man none of us could stand and who couldn’t stand us.”

“Odd, for such a peasant family as yours.” Eru said, sounding thoughtful. “Why?”

“Harder to work the fields. And he and my mother said they never wanted no child of theirs to flinch from a hug.” Mairon responded, feeling nostalgic for a time simpler, but now long gone. “Must be nice for you, to count all your family among the living.”

“I could not possibly bear to lose any of them.” Eru affirmed.

Mairon laughed bitterly at that.

“With how you’ve treated Melkor, you’re looking to lose at least one.” Mairon said.

“I shall be the one who determines that.” Eru said darkly. “I will protect my family, no matter what.”

With an ever-deepening scowl, Eru left again.

Probably to cool his temper. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ain't careful, all Mairon's family will be named after characters from the Tain Bo Cualinge. Two characters with built in references to one epic is probably one too many. But I like the Tain very much, so...


	15. No, not all doors are designed like cell doors

Melkor was surprised when, after a short phone call with one or two snide insinuations about his father’s disdain for Feanor, he was hung up upon in the middle of some unnatural shriek of rage that predicted a sudden flurry of movement on the map, which Thuringwethil had switched back to showing the city again.

Feanor and Nerdanel were moving towards the countryside, towards his father’s home.

As soon as he, Gothmog, and Thuringwethil were sure that their distraction would probably work, they set off. 

  
  


~~~

  
  


When the three arrived at Eru’s manner, via Thuringwethil opening a door in her home to a location not protected by wards and then some good, old-fashioned walking, they found the front of the manse blown open, as if by some type of explosive.

Nevertheless, they circled around to the back and cracked open a window, not wanting to risk either Feanor, Nerdanel, or Eru lingering about the explosion site.

Melkor had chosen a window that showed an area that was usually close to the entrance to the basement.

The room they dropped into was something of a chemistry lab, Melkor supposed, if chemistry had not advanced past the fourteen-hundreds. It was also in a state of disuse and neglect. If the reagents, both mundane and unnatural, had been volatile when fresh, six centuries of silent, patient waiting had rendered them well and truly inert.

There were two doors in the room, one on the eastern wall and one on the northern wall. 

“North or east?” Melkor asked. 

“I say east.” Thuringwethil offered.

Gothmog slowly opened the door. Melkor and Thuringwethil watched for any sign of movement. 

It opened to an opulent sitting room with a single door across from the one that had just been opened. While the room was bedecked in period Victorian furniture, an armchair facing a still-lit fireplace, a bottle of wine and a halfway empty glass of wine sitting on a finely made end table beside said chair, the door was a heavy, steel-reinforced monstrosity, grim and imposing, painted with a personification of night itself.

“This is definitely it.” Melkor said, cold shivers running down his spine at the sight of that awful Door of Night. “That door. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

Melkor threw a small bit of biting, wintry wind into the room to check for traps before stepping inside.

“How over-dramatic, making a ‘Door of Night’ to the basement.” Melkor muttered. Thuringwethil was already cautiously investigating the door.

Several layers of wards and magic that Melkor had always never been able to look at without feeling his throat close up and skull begin to pound and fill with noise crumbled beneath Thuringwethil’s fingers easily.

The yawning cavern of the Void beneath the manse stared up at him.

As always, Melkor felt its hunger and its uncanny gaze peering into him.

He stared into it and tried to master his breathing.

“Are you alright?” Gothmog asked.

“No, but you need me to guide you.” Melkor said, more shaky than he would have liked. “And I will feel this way no matter where I stand, so I might as well stand somewhere useful.”

And with that, they walked into that labyrinthian Void beneath the manse.

  
  


~~~

  
  


It irked Mairon that it had taken him this long to figure out a way around the stocks he was currently bound in. Once he’d discerned that, the room had one less set of stocks and one more puddle of slag to its name. After that, it was pretty simple to melt the stone of the wall and stumble, exhausted by the unusual amount of effort it had taken to melt the stone, into what may have once been a gardener’s shed before it got sucked down into Eru’s basement.

It, like the room he had just left, also had no doors or windows to use as points of egress.

Of course, not one to waste any sort of resource when in dire straits, Mairon set about to determining what he could use inside the room to aid in his escape. He was reasonably certain that he didn’t have enough magic in him right now to melt another wall, and he was also certain that he didn’t have the time to recharge and melt the wall again. Hopefully the fertilizer in the bags was the type he thought it was.

Just because he couldn’t melt another hole into a wall didn’t mean he couldn’t flick sparks.

  
  


~~~

  
  


As they entered the first level of the basement, Melkor felt the rooms shift.

The rooms shifted in strange patterns, difficult to predict, based on an ever-changing set of algorithms. Manwe, and Eonwe by proxy really, since Melkor’s homunculus-nephew had little opportunity for self-discovery, updated the algorithms with whatever new and exciting mathematical concept caught Manwe’s interest. It had gotten to the point that his father affectionately said even he could barely navigate his own house. Once that hadn’t been a joke anymore, the living areas were regularized and Melkor was confined to the basement.

There had been plenty of times when Melkor had, of course, managed to make it to the Door of Night, only to be thwarted by the simple fact that the very Door itself had been etched into his consciousness as a symbol of every terror in his life.

Many times, setting afore that accursed Door, Melkor had wondered if he would grow more and more twisted in the subterranean halls in the Void beneath the manse until his outer husk shewed the misshapen creature his soul was hewn as.

In the first room they entered, coming directly from the stairs that the Door of Night opened in to, Thuringwethil swore. Melkor noted she spoke Mandarin.

“All the doors are reinforced.” Thuringwethil said. 

“They are.” Melkor said.

“Steel and hardwood, treated in fire to be strong.” Thuringwethil grumbled.

“Good craftsmanship.” Gothmog added. “A person could make a fair bit of coin off these.”

“Because they have good craftsmanship, therefore they are bad for us.” Thuringwethil responded, sounding irritated. “You didn’t mention the doors would be reinforced, Melkor.”

“All the doors are; I hadn’t thought to mention it.” Melkor said apologetically.

“No worries.” Thuringwethil said, drawing an oxtail sword from her flowing sleeve and proceeding to physically hack the door open. “I have fix.”

Melkor really wished he had his sword now. He wanted vengeance on the doors, now that he realized they weren’t indestructible eldritch horrors from some sort of terrible void beyond creation.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon was annoyed. 

The point of blowing a hole in the wall was to improve his situation, not to have the room vanish on him. 

He had gone through all the effort of carting out all the fertilizer, moving it to a safe distance, setting up his explosive, moving himself to a safe distance, and carefully triggering it with a single, precisely flung spark, only for the house to fuss like a colicky child and move the damn shed on him.

However, Mairon was determined to make the most of this. First of all, he knew he could damage the house enough to make entries and exits for himself. Second of all, he had plenty of supplies to make explosives to damage said house. Third, and perhaps most important, his original hole was still there.

Taking all that into account, Mairon dusted himself off and investigated the next room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mairon has been a lot of things, really.
> 
> Bilingual/googling/cn reading bonus: Thuringwethil says a rather apropos homophone of 'grass mud horses' to the doors


	16. Searching for the traces in the dark

The Void was full of horrible memories in every corner. 

That stain on the wall that nothing ever seemed to get rid of was there.

That pile of blankets where he had nursed so many gashes and bites was there.

That corner he had hidden in from the nightmares was there.

It was all there.

The Void was endless, a complex of spartan rooms and cold stone and dark air that never ever ended. Ever.

“Is the upstairs just as bad?” Thuringwethil asked.

“It isn’t.” Melkor answered, checking another room and finding, to his surprise, a blast hole. “Come see this. Someone was here.”

Thuringwethil and Gothmog came over. Melkor stepped aside for them to see.

“Well, would you look at that.” Thuringwethil said, relieved. “Mairon was here.”

“He was?” Melkor asked.

“He was. Mairon knows how to make explosives; I don’t doubt that if he could, he would.” Thuringwethil said. “Let’s follow the holes.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon had run out of improvised explosives right as he reached doors. He counted himself lucky for that, but he wasn’t free yet. He knew he needed to go up, but up and down seemed to change. It was a dizzying place, a prison designed to confuse.

As he stepped into the next room, he grimaced. More claw marks, and old ones too. He’d seen traces of some great power trapped down here. He wondered if it was Melkor.

Thinking of that made him sad; the basement was no place for a person, not really.

Mairon crossed the room, marking it with a burst of flame to scorch the ceiling.

The room he stepped into took the cake for most disturbing sight down here. Ultimately, deep gouges and signs of rage weren’t all that frightening. Rage and destruction were nothing unfamiliar to him and did not frighten him.

There were tally marks on every surface, save for one sad line scratched in an unsteady hand. Mairon grimaced once he read it. It simply was an admission of defeat, a despair that time had ceased to matter. 

Mairon was about to make himself leave the room before he drowned in the despair of those marks when he felt the house shift again and lost his feet, stumbling into the wall. He leaned against it, then sank to the floor when he realized that the rumbling and shaking were going on for longer than they had last time.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Times like these convinced Melkor that whatever fortune he had when he was younger had been thoroughly and utterly spent. 

When the house started changing again, he wasn’t too fazed. In his experience, the best way to deal with that was to be on the floor. Unfortunately, he lost his footing due to the shaking and tripped. Melkor had no feelings of shame over falling; Thuringwethil and Gothmog weren’t faring much better. But what was truly unfortunately was that he was standing next to a door and fell though it to fall on top of another person.

Because Melkor was aware that lying on top of strange people in labyrinthian basements was a bit rude, he promptly rolled off them.

Then he realized he just fell on Mairon. Melkor’s opinion on what was most unfortunate about the recent chain of events. It was falling on top of Mairon. No ‘if’s, ‘and’s, or ‘but’s about it.

The shaking ceased shortly afterwards. Mairon groaned and winced.

“Give a man some warning next time.” Mairon said rather breathlessly. His hair was long and messy, his fair skin somewhat flushed, and his amber eyes full of fire. Melkor found him to very beautiful.

Melkor also wished he had some cold water to dunk his head in, because he needed to pay attention to important things like escaping and finding Thuringwethil and Gothmog.

“My apologies.” Melkor replied. Mairon stood, dusting himself off. Melkor stood as well.

“Now what?” Mairon asked, surveying the room with a canny gaze.

Melkor looked around as well, to see the lay of the land for himself. He grimaced when he realized where he was. 

“I don’t like this room.” Melkor muttered.

“Neither do I.” Mairon replied, already poking his head through a door. What he saw must have been promising, because he beckoned Melkor over before stepping inside. The room was plain and austere like every other room in the basement. There was neither furniture nor any other doors. In the centre of it was a trunk. Besides it was a sword and a spear. Melkor finally realized what sword Mairon held, but the sight of that spear mattered more to him. He would know the sight of what he had lost no matter how many aeons had left him in the dust.

Melkor thought he could feel a weight in his heart lifting. He doubted his clothing would have survived the passage of time, but there was certainly a few objects that were precious to him that may yet be whole, or at least, not degraded into a worthless state.

He went to the trunk and opened the lid. Mairon watched curiously, but silently. Melkor was grateful to that. He didn’t think he would be able to speak without his voice wavering and betraying the overwhelming rush of emotions brought on by what was in the trunk. His black cloak and the pin, a prize from a fairy king after fighting a rival fairy and returning to that king with his rival’s head in tow, made in fine yellow gold. It still shone, his cloak as well-worn but fine as the day he set off across the sea once more to face his father.

Melkor draped the cloak round himself and pinned it at his right-breast, just as he had so long ago. Within the trunk was also his sword, which has hummed with the great stone and declared him king. It was a hard-won weapon, paid for with blood and tears, but a trusty one, and it had served him well. He was surprised to see it here. Last he recalled, his sword had been swept up from his body by the head of his fianna and taken away, along with his shield. 

He remembered that conversation clearly. If Melkor were to die facing his father, then he wanted to leave his father nothing but a corpse to cradle. 

At the bottom of the trunk was his feat-playing shield, finely marked and made. 

With the trunk emptied, Melkor took up his spear. Blessed by a goddess, it had never missed his target, save for the one time it would be his undoing. But he did not blame the spear, for a weapon was only as strong as the person holding it, and he had faltered in that fateful moment.

Melkor turned to face Mairon, who looked at his with an expression hard to place.

“You remind me of one of those heroes from legend.” Mairon said.

Melkor shrugged.

“I have not heard of such legends.” He said. “Let’s keep moving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took forever school and my shit brain is leeching my motivation.  
Fianna are like knights or warriors.


	17. Stand with the memory of a pride long gone

Mairon followed Melkor, somewhat enraptured, half-way enchanted, even, by the way that holding pieces of the past seemed to complete part of an image of Melkor that had been traced, half-done, in his mind. Melkor was kingly, with his spear and shield, like legends told by bards and poets, of times where heroes were abundant. When he was born, legends were already faded and lost, save for the ones in lonely, left-behind parts of the world away from history’s gaze. But history’s gaze sees all in time, until, under the burning light of her vision, all the legends faded away to naught but old wives’ tales and superstitions of the ‘older generation’.

Sadly, Mairon realized he had not spoken his native tongue in ages and ages.

But freedom is fleeting and must be pursued, so he continued back into the room of tallies and found another door, another prison-cell room, and he and Melkor carried on in their search for whatever way was up.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The silence was unbearable to Mairon. Underground, noise was muted by the heavy layers of earth, but when there was noise, it was deafening.

Eventually, to break the awful silence, Mairon thought to speak, but found he could think of nothing to say. Melkor led the way, seeming wrapped in shadows, almost like a distant mythic figure. The only sound was their footsteps, and even those were quiet and careful.

They kept moving through doors. Melkor marked them before they went through them with a slash of his sword.

“Does the house also change in subtle ways?” Mairon asked as Melkor marked yet another door.

“It does.” Melkor replied. “My brother and his son designed it. The shaking motions are when it is reacting to something unfamiliar. I think that was when you blew a hole in a wall.”

“No one tried that?” Mairon asked.

“I do not know how, and no one else is really down here.” Melkor said, in a factual, dispassionate way. “It was made to be my prison and jailer.”

Mairon had no ken of how to respond to that.

  
  


~~~

  
  


It was Mairon who found the first set of stairs upwards. By pure coincidence, he opened a door, and there it was. Lo and behold, something they had been looking for for a good long while.

Stairs. It felt like a miracle.

Without thinking, Mairon grasped Melkor’s hand and half-pulled, helf-led him to the way up. It was only once they were half-way up the deceptively long staircase that Mairon realized he was still holding Melkor’s hand, which had initially been like a block of ice but had soon warmed in his grasp.

Melkor looked a bit flushed. Mairon quickly let go.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mairon said, embarrassed. 

“It’s fine.” Melkor replied.

They continued upstairs a bit awkwardly, until, almost at the top, Melkor reached for Mairon’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Mairon squeezed Melkor’s hand a little, and fought back the foolish grin such a simple gesture endeavored to draw out of him.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The stairs led into a hallway. Although for a brief, shining moment, he’d been gladdened by a change of scenery from plain rooms to plain hallway, today was not his lucky day.

The doors, most unfortunately, decided, just as the pair was two steps into the hallway, to peel themselves away from the walls and march with militaristic precision and jingoistic gusto through the hallway they could see and beyond, further into what was likely a maze of corridors.

“Of all the god damned things.” Mairon missed

Like most pleasant things in life he’d lost, Mairon lost the pleasure of holding Melkor’s hand with a bang, the loud crash of the doors returning to the walls startling Melkor into withdrawing his hand. 

The Void beneath Eru’s manse seemed to bend what, exactly, space was. Mairon did not like it. He liked the roaring sea, vaguely menacing lochs, bogs that had probably taken their fair share of travelers over the centuries, and other, majestic works of nature that did not fuck with the senses like the horrible fucking basement he was in at the moment.

“I hate it, Melkor. I really, really hate it. Truly.” Mairon said to Melkor, astounded at the audacity of this place.

“Join the club.” Melkor said dryly, crossing his arms under his cloak.

“I shall.” Mairon said, investigating a door. 

“I remember this part a bit.” Melkor said casually, opening the door carelessly. “Everything leads to upstairs. I’m pretty sure my father knows we’re here now, and is funneling us up. Thuringwethil, Gothmog, Feanor, and Nerdanel are probably fine.”

“What are Feanor and Nerdanel doing here?” Mairon asked, surprised, following Melkor into the room, towards a set of stairs.

“Thuringwethil used them as a distraction so my father would be busy while we went looking for you.” Melkor said. “Alas, it seems our time has run out.”

They fell silent and ascended the stairs.

  
  


~~~

  
  


They arrived in the foyer of the manse, the point of egress from the basement that they had just traveled through vanishing, into a grand, high-ceilinged affair with a stereotypically grand crystal chandelier, Persian rugs, and grand staircase that split halfway up to lead to two separate wings. 

Eru stood, in a rather dated suit, with a fine cane, at the landing where the stair diverged into separate directions. Behind him was massive landscape of fierce, untamed mountains, wild, archaic forest, and roiling storm clouds.

“You’ve fixed the place rather quickly.” Melkor said.

“I have.” Eru said warmly. “Feanor, while wild, is easier soothed when his wife is by his side. And she is, at heart, a level-minded woman.”

“I suppose that the door is locked and the windows are warded.” Melkor said casually.

“Of course.” Eru said, sadness colouring his voice. “I wish I could trust you my beloved son, truly I do, but alas you have shewn I cannot.”

“I know that I must stay, but may I ask that you let Mairon go? His only crime in this matter was his care for me.”

“Why would I not?” Eru said. “I have already let that Chinese harlot and that infidel merchant go. I do not see any issue with letting an Irish peasant go as well.”

“I will not leave.” Mairon said. 

“You are better off leaving.” Melkor said quietly, leaning close to Mairon to hide his words from his father. But Mairon guessed from Eru’s Cheshire cat grin, shown only for him, that there was nothing his son would do that was solely his own any more.

“I will not leave you.” Mairon said, defiant. 

“You do not know me; it is not worth it.” Melkor responded, drawing back, his voice raising, mayhaps in shock mayhaps in disbelief.

“Let me decide that.” Mairon responded.

“It is decided then.” Eru said. “Mairon will stay.”

“Father, please.” Melkor pleaded, turning away from Mairon to face his father. “Please, I beg of you. Cage me, if it pleases you, but let my一 let Mairon go.”

“Let your what go?” Eru asked sharply, his demeanor losing its previous warmth. “Your what, Melkor.”

“My friend, damn you, my friend.” Melkor snapped. “How many must you take from me for your gluttony to be satisfied? What more must I lose? I have lost a lover, sisters and brothers, friends, comrades, even myself! To what end, father? To what end do I suffer?”

“Enough.” Eru said. “Go to your rooms. We will speak on your unseemly conduct later.”

With a dismissive wave of a single gloved hand, Melkor was gone.

“As for you, follow me.” Eru said, equally dismissive. “I will show you to your rooms.”

Mairon followed him, biding his time. The rest of the house was equally lavish, decorated with an opulence fit for a king. To Mairon’s eyes, it was the home of an insecure man trying desperately to convince the viewer of his own power. He noticed that all the oil paintings in the house were painted in the same hand as the one in the foyer.

Eventually, they reached the rooms Mairon would be staying in. Eru shooed him inside and shut the door. Mairon didn’t even bother trying it; it was definitely locked.

He poked around the rooms a bit, finding one main room with a bedroom and bathroom attached. The main room had a large window and several filled bookshelves, with a divan beneath the window and a coffee table in front of it. The carpet on the floor looked plush. Mairon decided to remove his shoes and place them by the doorway. The carpet was as plush as it looked, the fibers feeling squishy between his toes.

Mairon was glad to find that the bathroom was only connected to the bedroom, and that the main room had a fair selection of books. Even though he was not one for coffee table books, he figured it was better that defacing or destroying the room out of boredom and spite.

Pulling the most promising book off the shelves, Mairon settled down on the divan by the window and got to reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> write fast edit never, that's my motto until i have to turn it in. then it's write fast edit many times


	18. Two steps back and two steps forward

Melkor’s room was in the exact mess he had left it in. Curtains draped over furniture moved over windows, books and paper strewn everywhere, painting on the walls when he’d needed to do something, anything. It was a dark cave; it was a monster’s nest.

He wrapped his cloak around himself and pretended he wasn’t alone anymore.

When his father entered the room, he looked relieved.

“My son.” His father breathed, grateful, like a weight had been loosened. “No words can convey how it feels to see you home again.”

Something in Melkor curled up and shrunk away. 

“Where is Mairon?” Melkor asked.

“In the farthest guest room.” Eru said. “It thought it best to allow for some privacy between you two, should you need it.”

“You should know very well that my heart is lacking for the capacity to love, father.” Melkor said dully. “And you should know very well my thoughts on the matter of lovers.”

“It’s unhealthy for you to lack social bonds.” His father said pleadingly, like he wanted to Melkor to see some sort of reasoning. “I just want to help rouse you from this mood you’ve been in.”

“It has been literal eras, father.” Melkor replied. “And my mood would be better if I were free.”

“You are free.” His father said sternly.

Melkor wouldn’t bother arguing with him about that. He never listened.

“I am tired.” He said instead. 

“I will leave you to rest then.” His father replied, stepping outside and shutting the door behind him. 

It wasn’t locked anymore, but that was only because the lockedness of the door didn’t matter anymore.

  
  


~~~

  
  


As the sun was fixing to set, Mairon received a knock on his door, immediately followed by the entrance of Manwe.

“You are to join us for dinner.” Manwe said. “Unless you would prefer to eat in your rooms? I do not advise eating separately, however. My brother is to dine with us as well, and my father would prefer that he knows you are here.”

Mairon’s gaze narrowed.

“I will come for dinner.” He said stiffly. Mairon felt much like a pawn; it did not sit with him well.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Melkor was sitting on the floor of his room, having removed his cloak and set it in the least disturbed part of his rooms, the most tucked away of crevices that he liked to hide in. He had a terrible habit of turning the mess of his room into little forts and burrows. His father had long since despaired of keeping Melkor’s rooms up to his standards of neatness, and letting Melkor wreck his own rooms kept him from wrecking the other rooms.

He knew Varda’s brusque knock on his door that preceded her entrance. She stood, proud and regal as a queen of the very heavens, and looked at him with those pitying eyes that held stars long gone or long yet to come in them.

“You came back.” She said softly. “I had hoped you would not. You are not suited to this life.”

“I know.” Melkor replied. “But what can I do?”

“Nothing, with that attitude.” Varda chided fondly.

“My attitude is what has kept me sane for so long.” Melkor shot back.

“Pardon me if I’m wrong, but the state of a person’s home says a lot about them, and the state of your’s is telling.” Varda said simply. “Come, it’s time to eat.”

“And if I don’t want to will you drag me there?” Melkor asked.

“Manwe has been ordered to tell Mairon you will be there.” Varda said. “He does not appreciate being made a liar of.”

“Which one?” Melkor said with a short, harsh laugh, standing up.

“Does it matter?” Varda said airily.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The dinner was a fine imitation of what Mairon supposed nobles and aristocrats thought homely meals were. He did his best to be unobtrusive, feeling underdressed, which irked him to no end. Eating a meal was, in his opinion, something that brought the family together. 

He would have been more worried that he was being mocked if it weren’t for the fact that Melkor had come, sat down, finished eating before everyone else, then spaced out.

Once everyone had finished their food did Eru speak.

“We still have not spoken.” Eru said to Melkor.

“I know.” Melkor replied. “You do what you will, when you will, as you will.”

“I suppose I do.” Eru said thoughtfully, then turning to Mairon. “What do you think of our meal, most esteemed guest?”

“Fine enough.” Mairon said. He’d never put much time into learning fancy manners.

“‘Fine enough’?” Eru said, sounding disappointed. Mairon sat up straighter at that.

“I said what I said.” Mairon replied. “I am not one for lying.”

“Well, honesty is such a thing to uphold, is it not, father?” Manwe said. Beside his father, Eonwe nodded.

“Yes it is. How quaint.” Eru said warmly, previous sternness lost. “Since I hope to be seeing very much of you, I suppose I should know your name.”

“You already know enough of me.” Mairon said bluntly. “I am a private person by nature.”

“I heard you one had a large family.” Manwe said, as if he wasn’t poking at Mairon.

“I did.” Mairon said. “Now I don’t. I’d like to leave it at that.”

“How unfortunate.” Manwe said, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

“Indeed.” Varda said sharply. “Now, enough. Let the man be in peace, you incorrigible gossips.”

Melkor finally seemed to wake up.

“I would like to take Mairon to see the gardens.” Melkor said.

“This late? In this weather?” Manwe asked with a confused smile. It was chilly, but Mairon was sure he could find a coat. Maybe he could borrow one from Melkor.

“I can lend him a coat.” Melkor said, as if he’d read Mairon’s mind.

“Well, there’s not much growing now though.” Manwe protested.

Eru smiled.

“Go.” He said with a wave of his hand. “Show him the gardens.”

Melkor stood, inclining his head to draw Mairon to follow him. And so Mairon did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanna see if i can make a coherent poem using chapter titles? let's call ch16's title line one and give it a whirl


	19. It is unparalled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please assume that Melkor is taller than Mairon.

Before they went outside to see the gardens, Melkor insisted upon lending Mairon a coat, some sort of frenetic excitement in him. At the door of his rooms, however, Melkor paused, seeming unsure of himself.

“My rooms are not really in a state to be seen right now…” Melkor said hesitantly.

“I don’t mind.” Mairon replied, remembering some fond, inane feelings associated with his childhood home, which certainly was not presentable by high-class standards either.

“I mean, my rooms look like a storm went in and wrecked the place.” Melkor insisted. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“If all that makes you worry about me seeing your rooms is mess, I’d rather you let me in to allay your fears. But if what’s worrying you is something else, then I don’t mind staying out here.” Mairon said, leaving the choice up to Melkor.

Melkor shrugged and opened the door.

“You’ll find out sooner or later.” He said. “I wouldn’t put it past my father.”

Melkor was not kidding about the mess, Mairon realized as he stepped into the rooms. It had been utterly razed, the ruins used as refuge. He didn’t want to think further on it. Mairon had seen enough of the desolation of war when he was young. He didn’t need to see any more. But he wouldn’t step outside. Instead, he waited patiently for Melkor to find a coat.

The coat was too long, but it was warm. Mairon practically wrapped himself in it.

“Is it okay?” Melkor asked. “I can find something else that fits better, maybe.”

“No, it’s fine.” Mairon reassured.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The gardens were lovely, frost glittering on sleeping, spindly boughs, holly bushes with bright red berries strangely untouched by winter. Melkor, despite the freezing air, was fine, his breath not even misting in the air before them. Mairon knew that his own magic made him run hotter than most, but he’d have thought that even Melkor would feel chilly, especially since he wasn’t even dressed properly for the weather.

“Are you not cold?” Mairon asked.

“No, not really.” Melkor said. “I nearly died buried in the snow. After that, I never felt the cold again, unless I was in the freezing cold for hours. And after I died the first time, I was never physically cold again.”

Mairon wanted to tell Melkor something equally weighty, but he wasn’t sure how.

“Let’s walk around while I figure out what to say.” Mairon said. Melkor nodded.

They headed deeper into the sprawling gardens.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Melkor wouldn’t deny that he was curious as to what Mairon was thinking of saying. He’s pretty sure he’s heard where Mairon’s from, he recognized Mairon’s sword, but Melkor had never explicitly heard Mairon really talk about himself.

Eventually, at a frozen fountain, having been turned off once the ice started setting in the keep the pipes from breaking, Mairon stopped. Melkor stopped as well, standing next to Mairon, close enough that if he shifted just a fraction to the right, they would be touching. Mairon sighed.

“The first time I died was an execution.” Mairon said. “Hanging for treason. If it’s done right, the drop snaps your neck, but if it’s not done right, you slowly choke on the rope. ‘Course, I wasn’t the smartest lad out there, so I did it again first thing after I got over coming back to life and got sent to Australia as a convict.”

“Treason?” Melkor asked.

“Following in my brothers’ footsteps, really.” Mairon said distantly. “I can’t go back anymore, not until mess settles down a bit. Made some mistakes, took things too far, and one thing led to another. Not that it’s anything but my own damn fault that I can’t go back, but I miss it.”

“I miss my home too.” Melkor said. “Not my childhood one, but… When I was just a boy, I ran away from home and ran to my mother’s brother. He took me in, damn near raised me. He was the father Eru wasn’t. I miss the home I found there, if that makes sense.”

“It does.” Mairon said. “Maybe one day you can take me there.”

“Yeah.” Melkor replied. “But there’s not much to see anymore. Destroyed in a war. Anyone who was there either fled or died.”

“My home too.” Mairon said softly. “Most of us were on the wrong side of the war. Many were executed for treason. My family was lucky. Sister left soon after the war, both my brothers in the fighting died, my parents died soon after from grief, so there was only me left. And I ran off to join a band of rebels soon after.”

“I lost what I had from my own folly.” Melkor offered. “I thought I was strong enough to win. I wasn’t.”

Mairon turned to look at him, a deep sadness on his face. He hugged Melkor.

Melkor was surprised, but after that initial shock he returned the hug. Mairon’s hand shifted up to nudge Melkor into dropping his head into Mairon’s shoulder. Melkor pulled Mairon closer.

“Talking about my youth makes me rather melancholy.” Melkor said with a laugh that was almost a sob.

“Me too.” Mairon said. 

They stayed like that for a good while before heading back in walking hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to do nanowrimo, so I may either work more on this than usual, or get side-tracked. Only time will tell.


	20. The courage of ordinary men

After their walk in the garden, Melkor insisted on walking Mairon back to his room, something which Mairon was quite grateful for. He did not trust the place one bit to stay regular and not move around. At the door, Mairon handed Melkor his coat back.

Once in his room, he took a shower, snagged the book he had been reading earlier, read a touch more, then went to sleep. He was tired from remembering. Sometimes, there were just things that made folks tired to remember. His family was one. Home was another. What he’d been up to during the twentieth century and a smidge into the twenty-first was a third.

It took him a while to fall asleep. Mairon preferred, strangely enough for a man who’d been a sailor multiple times and lived on three continents, to stay in one place. He supposed his life was one big journey to go home at this point, a whole lot of trying and failing and trying again. Even though he had Thuringwethil and Gothmog, Mairon didn’t really have people anymore. Thuringwethil could live anywhere, and Gothmog loved cosmopolitan areas. Feanor had Nerdanel and his family, strained though some of those relations may be. When Mairon was young, he’d had his family. He didn’t have his family any more.

Mairon fell asleep hoping for no dreams at all, not even good ones. Even good dreams brought along a melancholy mood, for they were always of things he’d loved and lost.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon was roused in the middle of the night by a fearsome storm, which crashed imperiously and casted thunder about wantonly. Accompanied by howling wind and hard rain clattering like horses’ hooves on the roof, Mairon sat up in bed. There had been plenty of times when he’d rolled over and gone back to sleep in this weather, but tonight, some sort of unease, perhaps, kept him awake. He felt like something would happen soon.

At that thought, as if it were a summoning, there was a knock on his door. Wondering who it could be at such a strange hour, Mairon went to open it.

It was Melkor. He seemed strangely calm.

“May I come in?” he said softly, well aware of the quietness that such a night hour befitted, even with a raging storm. “This sort of weather has me in a mood.” Tucked under Melkor’s arm was a box and a canvas.

“Certainly.” Mairon said, opening the door wide enough for Melkor to slink in. “You paint?”

Melkor hummed and nodded, setting up his canvas, leaning it against the coffee table and sitting on the floor.

Mairon sat beside him and watched the storm through the window come to life with precise, masterful brushstrokes. Melkor’s painting had a texture to it, even wet, and judging from the tin of turpentine, with an amusingly cheeky cat painted onto it, he worked in oil.

The painting shewed what Melkor saw. The storm became a majestic, raw force of nature, the rough strokes adding character and texture, adding the illusion of clouds billowing like waves. The storm on the canvas became an ocean in the sky. Melkor seemed to paint the storm in loving detail, intermittently leaning back to view his work from farther away before moving in close to focus on minute touches of color. The light came from within the storm.

The room, in contrast, was dark and halfway finished. It had no illumination within it, save for the lightning’s harsh light, which failed to pierce the gloom that draped the room that Melkor painted. The interior was flat, rushed, and had the vaguest of shapes towards the viewer. The storm was freedom, and the room was darkness.

“Did you paint all the works in the house?” Mairon asked, curious.

“How could you tell?” Melkor asked, still focused on his work, currently making the sharpness of the lightning light of the storm brighter.

“The style.” Mairon said. “It’s very… painterly is the word I think. And the usage of negative space is clever. But mostly it feels like something you did, now that I’ve seen you paint.”

Melkor turned to him, brush in hand, a smudge of dark blue on his brow, his hands a mess of colors, some he hadn’t even used.

“It does?” Melkor said, looking very confused. “My father calls it derivative of Impressionism.”

“It has influence, I suppose, but it still looks like you.” Mairon said stubbornly. “Also, you have blue across your forehead, a long streak of it.”

“Oh.” Melkor said, examining the heel of his left hand. “Probably Prussian blue.” He showed Mairon the heel of his hand, upon which was a smear of deep, rich blue.

Mairon chuckled at that.

“Hold on, let me get some soap.” Mairon said, standing up and going to the bathroom.

“What for?” Melkor called.

“To wipe your face off.” Mairon said, returning with a hand towel wet with soapy water. “Now hold still.”

Mairon briskly worked at the paint on Melkor’s face, scrubbing it off very neatly, leaving no smudges of blue at all.

Melkor started to clean his brushes after Mairon was done, and after packing all his paints up and sticking his two cheap styrofoam plates of paint together before putting them back into his neat little wooden box, which someone had scrawled a little galaxy-furred kitty onto.

“Can I borrow your sink?” Melkor asked.

In lieu of answering, Mairon took a hand and started scrubbing.

Melkor looked quite embarrassed.

“You don’t have to do this.” he said, face turned away, even as his icy eyes remained fixed upon Mairon.

“I know.” Mairon replied, taking Melkor’s other hand. “But I want to.”

Melkor’s lips tightened and his gaze turned from embarrassed to confused.

“It feels servile.” Melkor said, crossing his arms the moment Mairon was done.

“I suppose so.” Mairon conceded. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

“You’re not my servant.” Melkor said, coldly stubborn.

“If you thought I was, I’d be very loudly upset about it.” Mairon said, a brow raised in challenge. Melkor stubbornly rose to it.

“And what would you do?” Melkor asked pointedly.

“I would fight you over it, so I would.” Mairon snapped. “I want to do something nice for you! For fuck’s sake, Melkor! Take the kindness and give it a rest.”

“Fine.” Melkor responded coldly, tossing his head to the side. He sighed and pouted, giving Mairon a sideways glare.

Mairon glared right on back.

“You’re too good for servitude.” Melkor said eventually.

“I am.” Mairon said. “You don’t have to be telling me that.”

Melkor dramatically skulked over to a couch and settled himself into a corner and glared at Mairon with that angry, frigid sulky cat glare of his.

“Did we really just argue about that?” Mairon asked suddenly.

“Yes, yes we did.” Melkor said primly. “I demand hugs as eric for the unlawful slaughter of my time.”

Mairon laughed and settled down beside Melkor, curling into him and letting Melkor wrap his arms around Mairon and get comfortable.

They fell asleep like that, curled into each other, and slowly, the storm abated, leaving pure, star-speckled night sky that would slowly melt into the golden warth and sharp purity of winter dawn.


	21. Dawn's rosy fingers stretching across the sky

Mairon woke up to the bright rays of dawn in his eyes, in bed, with Melkor using him as a pillow, contorting himself in a very feline manner to wrap around Mairon. Likewise, Mairon had both arms around Melkor, one resting on his head and the other sort of around his waist. Mairon sighed, because the dawn’s light was very piercing despite its softness, and he was currently warm and comfortable in bed. With Melkor.

Melkor slowly woke and looked at Mairon with half-lidded, still mostly asleep, eyes. Mairon stroked his head, running fingers through surprisingly fine hair. Melkor hummed, and snuggled closer.

“Did you move us last night?” Mairon asked, still essentially petting Melkor like he was some large cat.

“Yes.” Melkor mumbled. “Sleeping on couches gives me back pain.”

Mairon said nothing because had nothing to say, really. He was actually a bit surprised. Normally he was a light sleeper, easily woken by little noises such as a particularly loud gust of wind or branches scraping against the window. It had been weird to realize that, initially, because when he was younger he slept like the dead. In fact, it had been a running joke in the family that he could sleep through even the worst storms that rolled off the sea, the ones that made you fear for your life from their wild intensity.

But then life had happened and now Mairon slept like a paranoid cat, always with one eye perpetually cracked open. Amusingly, at least to him, was the fact he could fall asleep anywhere in any position, including but not limited to standing, sitting, and looking productive.

Eventually, though, a knock on the door had them both snapping out their half-asleep states.

“I don’t know what you two did last night, but you’re supposed to be at the table for breakfast.” Varda called. “I don’t want to risk seeing something I shouldn’t, so I’m not going to bother with opening the door.”

“Oh god.” Mairon sighed.

“You’re telling me.” Melkor groused. “It could be worse.”

“Surely not.” Mairon replied.

“It could’ve been my brother. Or my father.” Melkor answered.

“Oh, yes, that’d be worse.” Mairon said, finally getting up, in turn dragging Melkor up, who was not quite ready to let go.

“Let me sleep more, please.” Melkor begged, looking at Mairon with his best pleading expression.

“I can’t.” Mairon told him, though not trying to remove him either. “You’re father will throw a fit if we’re any later than we already are.”

“Fine.” Melkor said petulantly, disentangling himself and wandering into the sitting room while Mairon found something to wear. He was rather uncomfortable with the fact that the closet had clothing that fit with his normal attire.

Mairon went over to Melkor, who was sitting on his couch, still in his clothes from last night, but looking less rumpled now.

“Is your father stalking me?” Mairon asked. Melkor shrugged.

“Probably.” Melkor said nonchalantly, standing. “He’s a bit of a creep like that, if I’m to be honest.”

“Boundaries are a thing he never learnt, apparently.” Mairon grumbled.

“Sort of, yes, but not really.” Melkor said on their way down to breakfast. “He was better when I was still a wee little thing.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


At breakfast, Eru was darkly silent at the head of the table, casting an air of gloom over the whole meal. It set Mairon on edge, but it was not until everyone had finished their food did Eru speak.

“What, pray tell, happened last night?” He said softly. 

“The view in Mairon’s room is more appealing to paint, father.” Melkor said.

“Oh, is it now?” Eru said. “The view of what?”

“The storm, father.” Melkor said quietly.

“Do you think I was born yesterday?” Eru demanded.

“No, father.” Melkor seemed to want to turn into a puddle and disappear.

“Then why are you lying to me?” Eru was incensed, quietly raging, and directing the flames of his fury towards his son.

“I’m not, father.” Melkor said, shocked. “I wanted to paint the storm, and the way the wind blew it made it so that the best view was from Mairon’s room.”

“So?” Eru asked. “Why didn’t you go back to your room when you were done?”

“I was tired and wanted to sleep.” Melkor said. “And I didn’t want to walk across the whole manor.”

“But you could be bothered to walk across it once?” Eru said mockingly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Mairon snapped. “What sort of father are you? He wanted to paint something, so he came to my room. It was late, he was tired, so he slept there!”

“Do not interrupt me!” Eru said, standing up, his hands slamming into the table hard enough to cause glasses and bowls to spill. 

“Why the fuck not?” Mairon said, standing as well, kicking his chair over with a loud crash.

“Because I am the head of this household, and I will not have any lying or dishonesty or premarital sex under my roof!” Eru snapped.

“Premarital sex?” Mairon said, affronted. “Premarital sex? That’s what you’re getting on about? You cannot be serious.”

“If you continue on with this, I will have you flogged.” Eru threatened.

“I’ve been flogged before, you bastard.” Mairon snapped. “Grow up. And I didn’t fuck your son, I have not even kissed him on the cheek.”

“You two both think me a fool!” Eru raged. “I know what happens under my own roof! I will not suffer liars in my home.”

“When are you leaving then?” Mairon asked. “I haven’t done anything untoward at all! It’s you who’s the one making a fuss.”

“Then why would he be in your room at all at night?” Eru asked pointedly.

“To paint his painting!” Mairon said. “Why’re you even asking? How’d you know he was there?”   
  


“That’s besides the point.” Eru retorted.

“No it isn’t.” Mairon said, shaking his head. “No it fucking isn’t at all.”

“I have had enough of you.” Eru snarled.

Mairon felt the magic, then everything went black.

  
  


~~~

  
  


When he woke up, he was in a circular room, probably in a tower.

“Motherfucker.” Mairon breathed, running over to a window, looking down, and realizing he was really in a tower. 

Angrily, Mairon slunk away from the window to the bed, which was sparse and uncomfortable, but not too bad, all things considered, and sat down. He was quite annoyed, still angry, and decided that first chance he got, he was grabbing Melkor and running far, far away, probably to the Appalachians. The Appalachians were nice.

But first things first. 

He needed to escape.

The floor had a trapdoor, which opened to reveal a staircase that was bricked off. Mairon checked for his magic, and found it closed off by a wall of water. If he tried to pull any of his fiery energy through that, it’d be doused too quickly to do anything but exhaust him.

Mairon stepped away and let the trapdoor shut with a loud bang, too angry to care about the noise. The window had iron bars, no doubt to dissuade him from throwing himself out the window so he could return elsewhere.

The walls were solid stone, and there was a wooden table and two chairs, as well as a wooden trunk. He investigated the trunk first and found it empty. Then he checked out the table and the chairs. He noted that he could probably take them apart without any tools if he wanted to.

Done investigated, Mairon sat down under the window, fresh out of ideas for the moment.

But hey, he probably wasn;t going to be killed, which gave him plenty of time to think. Even though he was still a fair planner under the threat of the noose, that didn’t mean he liked it.


	22. Cats are a type of liquid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of the Melkor cat

Melkor found himself, as Mairon disappeared, to be a cat. To show his great displeasure at everything at the moment, he proceeded to take a deep breath, open his mouth, and scream, loudly and angrily.

Deciding that his chair wasn’t high enough to broadcast his displeasure, he jumped onto the table and deliberately knocked over everything in reach, such as his plate, mug, and an unlit candle stick.

Having sufficiently cleared a place for himself, Melkor started screaming again, while making direct eye contact with his father, who was still pissed that Mairon had the balls to interrupt him. How scandalous.

Eventually, though, his brother couldn’t stand the caterwauling anymore, and, rubbing at his temples, asked Melkor to stop. 

With an annoyed flick of his tail, Melkor jumped across the table, knocked the centerpiece down, stared Manwe in the eye as he knocked his spoon off the table, then jumped off the table.

He was going to go find Mairon now.

He was pretty sure his father would have put him either far, far underground or way, way up high. However, Mairon had gotten out of underground once, so Melkor figured he should check way high up first.

Of course, as he was briskly sliding up the stairs, someone tried to pick him up. He growled and yowled, but they persistently picked him up and then held him at arm's length.

“You can’t keep making him angry like this, brother.” Manwe said earnestly. Melkor spat at him.

“I know, I know, you think he’s stifling, but-” Manwe said, only to be interrupted by a demonic shriek and flying paws from Melkor.

“Oh, for the love of God, why can’t you be reasonable!” Manwe cried, dodging Melkor’s murder mittens.

Melkor took offense, like any reasonable person would do, and twisted himself around to bite Manwe on the wrist, sinking his teeth in deep before letting go so Manwe could drop him. He noted, with great satisfaction, the blood trickling down Manwe’s arm.

Nevertheless, if he got the chance, he was going to piss all over Manwe’s room, consequences be damned.

Meanwhile, he busily shot like a little crack of fluffy, inky lightning away, slipped under draperies and furniture like the slinky, skulky bastard cat he was.

Behind him, he thought he could hear the sound of Manwe complaining to Varda that Melkor bit him, to which Varda had only amusement and no sympathy.

She said something along the lines of ‘what did you expect?’, which would have, if Melkor had been able to, cause him a laughing fit.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Melkor, with his feline slinkiness, has managed to worm his way through any obstacle that should have been a barrier to him. While the general rule of thumb for cats is that if the cat can fit its head through the opening, the cat can get its entire body through the opening, said general rule does not quite apply to Melkor. If his nose fits, he fits, and he had a very small nose.

So that was how he’d gotten through two locked and warded doors, three hidden passages, four closed doors, and a crack in the wall, all to get to the annoyingly well-bricked in wall before him, right under where Mairon was. 

Melkor knew this because he could smell Mairon above him. Mairon smelt like ash, with a touch of salt, vaguely warm, a bit like forest, maybe with a touch of added spice from travel and experience. All around, Melkor found it to be pleasant.

And yet, despite the fact that Mairon was so, so close, he was having trouble finding a point of egress.

Of course, Melkor’s, well, seepiness, so to speak, was not a force to be reckoned with.

He was getting in, whether he was supposed to be getting in or not.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon watched, with some sort of abject fascination, tinted with just a smidge of horror for that extra flavour, a black cat squeeze into the room.

The cat, after he had finished doing whatever ungodly contortions and shenanigans, sat primly, licked his chest, then meowed proudly and looked at Mairon in a dignified, refined manner.

“Hi Melkor.” Mairon said. “How are feeling?”

He really wasn’t sure what else to ask the cat, who was really a person, who got through a solid stone brick wall and a closed trapdoor, who was also here to see him.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon was seated beneath the window. When Melkor had first started worming his way in, Mairon had seemed to be drowsing, the midmorning sun streaming in from the window opposite to the one he sat beneath cast him in a warm, golden light, reminiscent of autumn. If Melkor were to paint it, he’d use oche and warm yellow for the lighting, maybe a touch of orange even, to capture that warmth.

Melkor stared at Mairon, then blinked once, slowly, then trotted up to nudge at his hand for his reward-pets, which Mairon did give. Melkor hoped that this all would convey that he was planning to make Manwe move rooms for the fifth or sixth time because of cat piss. Melkor was a very determined cat, and he disliked being picked up.

Unless it was Mairon. Mairon was okay, Melkor had decided.

Melkor hopped into Mairon’s lap and got comfortable.

Mairon started to pet him, and Melkor drowsed in his company until he sensed his father coming. WIth one last head nudge as both a goodbye and an assurance that Manwe’s room would not be safe from his petty wrath, Melkor slipped away.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Eru stepped into the tower from thin air, far calmer than he was at the breakfast table, and sat at the table.

“Come, sit.” He said, his voice commanding. With a certain sullen air, Mairon sat at the table.

“I apologize for losing my temper earlier.” Eru said. “But when it comes to my family, I cannot be too paranoid. Do you understand that?”

“Yes and no.” Mairon said.

Eru sighed, softening.

“He is my oldest son, and, oh, the thought that he will go is too hard to bear, not after his mother passed.” Eru said mournfully. “Please, work with me. Surely you can understand the depth of feeling I have for him.”

“I cannot.” Mairon said.

That did not go over well with Eru.

“Then you will stay here, alone, until you will.” He said coldly, and left much the way he came.

What Eru didn’t know, however, was that Melkor could get into the tower.

And that Mairon saw how he worked his magic. Once, would not have been enough, and twice was still too few for comfort, but thrice? Three was a powerful number. Three was the Holy Trinity, three was the Morrígna, three was the siblings he lost.

He could always work with three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not calling Melkor as cat 'Dubh Óg' anymore because Mairon knows who he is now, he's not gonna call him that anymore. And Melkor knows his own name; he's a mess, but not that sort of mess.


	23. The liquid abilities of cats can be extended to the objects carried in certain cases

That night, Melkor did exactly as he planned, and Manwe had to move rooms again. Melkor felt no pity for him, for his brother had some sort of disregard for the bonds of blood that tied them.

Although, the only blood that tied them was their father’s, and his father’s blood was very watery, so to speak. The last time he had felt like his brother was his brother was when Melkor was small and his brother even smaller, a squealing baby to sing to and tell stories to and to, oh, so many things. He had eagerly awaited the time when his brother was older so they could have grand, childhood adventures together, and go on hunts, and listen to bards’ tales. 

But that wasn’t to be, and eventually Melkor had found himself, a mere scrap of a child, locked away inside his father’s fort. He tried to die, once. It worked, but it didn’t. The horror of still living, of coming back, of being held for the first time in only the gods knew how long, was what made him run, to the land where his mother was from.

It hadn’t been easy. He’d stolen a boat, but he was capsized during a storm. Luckily, he’d been close enough to the coast to swim, and had made it to shore, coughing up water colder than ice, shivering, but pressing on nevertheless. He wasn’t sure where he was going, other than west, towards a place his mother had said was in the same area as the Fort of Foreigners, but he’d made it eventually. His mother’s brother took him in.

In that house, he had found a home. After he led an army to face his father, the place had declined, and eventually, centuries later, was harmed by war, and eventually razed by famine. No one lived there anymore; the area had been completely depopulated.

Melkor briskly trotted to his father’s study for the magic to free Mairon’s magic. He sincerely hoped that his father would drop the cliches and make it something simple that didn’t involve impossible tasks or true love. Melkor poked around. He didn’t like his father’s study. He also wasn’t supposed to be in his father’s study, but good luck to any who tried keeping him out of anything. Melkor was easily bored, and he usually sated that boredom with destruction, snooping, or painting, whichever caught his fancy at the moment.

As he went exploring in his father’s study, he was reminded of how small he was as a cat. Everything was so tall around him. He, in comparison, was a small little thing, incomparable in height. The glass-doored bookshelves and display cases would be a pain to open; he’d have to jump for the door handle and hold on, so instead, he jumped onto his father’s desk, not even knocking down a speck of dust. Although he was in here to steal something useful for Mairon, he was going to pick something carefully. 

Melkor scanned the cases, stuffed to the brim with precious, mythic treasures, until he saw it. It was next to Carnwennan, and though he considered grabbing that dagger, sometimes said to be able to shroud the holder in shade, he instead decided to grab his own dagger.

A plain, utilitarian object, it was large enough to have multiple purposes besides self-defense and small enough to be easily concealable. It was one of the few things Melkor had taken with him when he ran from his father. The dagger had once been prophesied by a druid to bear good fortune. Over the years, those words had remained true. He’d only lost his chances when his father had stabbed him, causing his grip to falter and the dagger to fall into the stream below.

Before he had dropped his dagger, he’d seemed to have a chance of survival. Alas, in the end, that had not happened, and he died.

Melkor hopped down to reposition himself on the floor so that the direction of the force from his jump would jar the door, hopefully.

He felt very proud of himself when he opened the door first try, and even more proud of himself for getting his dagger all the way up to Mairon without being seen, despite his jump causing quite a loud noise. Truly, he was a lucky, stealthy cat.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Mairon watched, sitting in bed, having just been woken by the sound of cat paws scraping on wood, sort of astonished, quite impressed, now that he thought about it, as Melkor and a dagger, some ancient, heavy blade that had some air of solemnity about it, squeezed through the trapdoor again. From the pattern of light into the tower, it had been one day. Mairon had slept last night fitfully, and as a consequence, he was tired, in that low-level way of sleep deprivation. 

Melkor looked quite proud of himself as he strutted over, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth jauntily, the dagger held in his mouth. He jumped up onto the bed and dropped the dagger into Mairon’s lap, then sat down and looked at Mairon expectantly.

Mairon examined the dagger, which reminded more of a machete now that he could get a good look at it. It was well-made, with interlaced knotwork on the hilt. The grip was wrapped in leather. He eased it partway out of its sheath, and found the blade to be simple and lacking ornamentation.

“Go raibh maith agat.” Mairon said quietly. Melkor nudged his hand. Mairon petted him, scritching between his ears in a way that had Melkor practically falling into his hand.

After a good thirty minutes of love and affection, Melkor slid back a little to look Mairon in the eye. Then, he jumped down and slid under the bed. Mairon, realizing someone was coming from the heaviness in the air, shoved the dagger under the covers, disguising it by the folding of the sheets. It rested against his legs

Eru coalesced from the air, arms crossed, looking infuriated. Mairon quietly began to burn through the enchantments of the tower, hiding the ash under Eru’s stolen divinity.

“You took it, didn’t you.” Eru hissed. “You took it. Give it back. I will not lose anything. Never, ever, ever again.”

“I took nothing.” Mairon said firmly.

“You are a liar, a thief, a terrorist, and a convict.” Eru said, his voice intense and monumental and accusatory, rolling and crashing like some battle-mad warrior of old, who has, in old age, traded valour for paranoia, honor for deceit.

Before Mairon could burn through Eru’s enchantments, he was in Eru’s foyer, in chains, kneeling. Manwe, Varda, and Eonwe were waiting there as well.

He surveyed their faces, boldly making eye contact. He would force them to see him.

Varda was barely contained fury and wrath hidden vaguely behind a veneer of aloof pride. She was cold, like frozen wind across northern steppes, yet that coldness was the type to burn; it was not the coldness of apathy that froze and choked.

Manwe did not meet Mairon’s eyes. He instead cast his gaze up, yet it kept dropping, then lifting, then dropping, then lifting, then dropping. His mouth was set into a tight line, and when he swallowed, it was as though he was trying to swallow a hard truth or a bitter pill.

Eonwe, uncertain, stood closer to his mother than his father.

“I should have known that subhuman filth should not be treated as a person.” Eru snarled. Mairon began to burn the magic again, praying for time. Melkor ran in yowling, tail a thrashing black fan behind him. The dagger clattered to the floor. 

Eru ignored the clatter of the dagger to whip around to his son. Melkor slid to a stop, back arched fiercely, fur puffed up, spitting and hissing and yowling. Mairon took advantage of this and burned the magic holding him faster, faster, faster, so fast that he couldn’t hide all the ash. But that didn’t matter. He needed to do this in the time he had left.

“You are an ungrateful wretch!” Eru snapped at his son. Manwe flinched, Varda’s eyes narrowed, Eonwe slid closer to his mother, Melkor’s anger redoubled.

“I am your father! Only God knows how much I have given for you, all of you!” Eru continued. Manwe’s expression came to mirror Varda’s in anger, but also shewed disgust and a sort of agahstness.

“Father!” Manwe interjected. “That is enough!”

“Don’t you start too!” Eru whirled to face his other son. “You are to continue how you were and remain obedient.”

“I cannot believe I took this long to realize that you are paranoid old fool.” Manwe breathed. Varda rested a hand on his shoulder.

Mairon finished burning, and, taking advantage of Manwe’s unintentional distraction, ran, shifting his magic into a form suitable to get him and Melkor somewhere safe, and picking up a still angry Melkor, moved them out, throwing his magic into overdrive to do whatever was necessary, consequences be damned.

  
  
  


~~~

  
  


When they landed, Mairon was prone on a hard surface.

His apartment. Right.

He rolled over and coughed up a mouthful of blood, only instead of liquid, it was steam. Mairon groaned. 

The floor was freezing, and an icy hand was rolling him over.

Melkor hissed as though he’d touched a hot pan.

He was saying something, but Mairon couldn’t stay awake to parse it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Manwe finally grew a goddamned spine.


	24. For fear of loss

“Mairon, please stay awake, don’t pass out, I love you, I’m sorry.” Melkor was saying, frantic, tripping over his legs, stumbling forward. He reached out to Mairon, recoiling as his hand burned, blistered, healed. Mairon groaned, coughing up red steam that smelled of iron; blood. 

Melkor kept begging, as if declarations of love could save anything. Mairon was going to burn alive from the inside unless he did something. 

He did the only thing he could think to do. Wrapping himself in cold, wintry winds, he picked Mairon up and carried him to the bathroom, sending the winds to get the water in the tub as cold as it could possibly could be.

Then, he dunked Mairon, clothes and all, into the water, an arm behind him to keep him from drowning.

Steam, everywhere, all the water evaporating on contact. Melkor forced the steam to coalesce again, chunks of ice forming in it.

This time, he didn’t practically cause an explosion, but the water still turned straight to steam. Melkor grit his teeth and coalesced it again, sweat beading and freezing on his forehead. Melkor breathed a sigh of relief that the water only shot to a roiling boil. Melkor cooled the water again, chunks of ice rapidly forming then melting.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the water was only warm, not burning. Mairon was only feverish to the touch. Melkor hoped that the feverish temperature would lower on its own. 

With the most pressing emergency averted, Melkor realized that Mairon would probably prefer to wake up dry.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Manwe’s throat was very, very dry, and no amount of swallowing would fix it. He had lived too long inside a fortress, a king isolated from his people yet ruling. But such a king became distant from his people. 

When he was very little, he only remembered his mother in a sickbed, his father too busy hunting for some mystical cure, leaving only his brother for company. He doesn’t remember his father’s house keeping servants, but his brother’s stories, won easily with only an eager face, recalled times when there were servants and feasts. His brother, ten years older, looked different from his father and mother. Manwe, being a small, curious child, had asked. Melkor had told Manwe about his mother, a different mother who wasn’t Manwe’s, who died of the same disease. Manwe had reached for Melkor’s hair with his chubby baby fist, curious because it was different. Melkor took after his mother, he told Manwe. Manwe had been satisfied with this.

Manwe saw the dagger. He couldn’t bear to listen to his father anymore. It was so pointless. He wasn’t the heir of anything except his father’s madness, or something. It didn’t matter; it wasn’t like he’d ever have the chance to inherit anyway.

He snatched up the dagger and leveled it at his father.

“Enough. I’m leaving.” Manwe snapped. “I can’t believe I let you ruin it! You ruined everything! All to protect the family you destroyed. You killed my brother.”

“My son, you need to calm down, to reconsider.” Eru said placatingly.

“No, you need to face what you did!” Manwe shouted. “I don’t want this! I never wanted this. You said you would bring him home and we’d be a family again but then you killed him and he was dead, but now he looks alive again and you just want to kill him!”

Eru took a step forward. Manwe’s grip on the dagger weakened, but then he remembered breakfast, when his father ignored the truth, Manwe knew it was truth and nothing but, but he was a coward, God damn him, he was, and he lowered his head and said nothing. Varda had been furious. 

Manwe’s grip firmed again.

“Put down the dagger.” Eru entreated, his voice honey-sweet, soothing, enchanting.

“That is enough.” Varda said flatly, drawing her bow, calling it from nowhere to now here, nocking an arrow and aiming at his father. “Manwe, transport us.”

Manwe did as she asked without a second thought. He just wanted to go home again, to be with his family again. He didn’t know where his family was, he didn’t know how he could even have family without his brother, he didn’t know where to begin in addressing his complicitness in his brother’s death and dead-life.

After Varda had moved the three of them, Manwe simply buried his face in her shoulder and cried, feeling just as lost as he had when he was ten and his father told him his brother couldn’t leave  _ the room _ , just as lost as when his brother went away, just as lost as when his brother came back, just as lost as when his brother died.

Varda pulled him close, wrapping him in her embrace. Eonwe hugged him as well.

“I’m sorry.” Manwe sobbed.

Varda said nothing.

“Even if grandfather doesn’t love you, mom and I still do.” Eonwe said resolutely. Manwe hugged them both back, because he loved them, and he hoped that he would never, ever ruin their love for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than usual, but here's a nice spot to end it. Here, with Manwe finally dealing with several centuries of repressed emotional baggage.


	25. Moments

Mairon woke up, dry, a bit feverish but all in all not too bad, with Melkor sitting in a chair, by his bedside, draped across his bed, asleep in an awkward position. Mairon didn’t really recall what had happened between his reckless push for magic and waking up other than burning pain and delicious cold. 

Absently, he reached for Melkor, who was lukewarm, bordering on chilly to the touch. Melkor roused slowly, lifting his head to reveal red-ringed eyes.

“Never again.” Melkor said, his voice raspy and tired. “You almost died.”

“Oh.” Mairon said. “Oh dear.” He pushed himself upright pulling Melkor closer, into a hug.

“Never again, please, promise me you won’t do that sort of thing again.” Melkor begged, moving out of Mairon’s arms to grip his shoulders firmly, but not harshly.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try nevertheless.” Mairon soothed, running a hand through Melkor’s hair, then down his back, then again, like petting a cat.

Melkor sagged into him, sighing.

“My father’s still out there.”

“I know. I’d rather his name not darken my home right now though. I’m tired. Sleep with me?”

Mairon pushed back the covers.

Melkor looked at him, looking ready to break down into ragged sobs.

“You acting like you’re fine now, like you couldn’t have died.” Melkor’s voice was ragged, choked. “You would’ve coughed up blood, but you didn’t, it was already steam leaving your body. There’s no way in hell you’re good now.”

“I could’ve come back, Melkor, I don’t stay dead anymore.” Mairon pulled Melkor into bed, then pulled the covers up over them both.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Melkor replied. Then he curled into Mairon, wrapping his arms around him, as if he were seeking an affirmation of life.

“I’ve been like this for centuries, Melkor.” Mairon pointed out.

“He started it, he could end it.” Melkor spat, suddenly venomous.

Mairon just sighed and held Melkor, finding himself very tired. He would follow up on that statement later, when he wasn’t feeling dead tired and Melkor wasn’t ready to start bawling.

There was a long moment that was just the two of them, the only noise the city around them and their own breathing.

Mairon yawned.

“You’re still recovering.” Melkor said firmly. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Mairon conceded, shifting a little to get more comfortable.

Melkor’s breathing was lulling, and soon Mairon was asleep.

~~~

Melkor was not asleep.

He couldn’t. Instead, he lay there awake, in the dark room, the sun still deliberating upon whether to rise, afraid.

He couldn’t get the fear out of his head that if he fell asleep, he would wake and be holding nothing but ash. He had dreamed of it once, maybe, waking up, a dead man in his arms when he had laid his head besides a living one only moments ago.

Mairon was still here, but Melkor was under no illusion that Mairon would be here forever. Life was fragile, even when the life in question was that of a man who had evaded death for centuries. He should ask where Mairon was from, actually.

He wanted to know. It was strange; in the realm of people like Mairon, one’s origins were strictly guarded. Even his father didn’t speak of where they were from, afraid that the knowing of that would give people an edge over him. Melkor thought it ridiculous; his father’s magic was simply stolen divinity, and divinity lacked a true nature. By placing it in people, it gained a nature.

Mairon slept easily, as if Melkor’s worries would not come to pass. But still, it was little comfort to him, even as the warm and easy rhythm of Mairon’s breathing lulled him to sleep.

~~~

Manwe hadn’t realized that Varda owned a separate house away from his father in the city. He had never asked, never considered. He felt betrayed by his father. 

His father had promised him that they would be a family, that mother and Melkor’s mother would be back and not dead, that his brother would be happy. So taken was he by such fantastic promises, he forgot to look at the road ahead. 

He sat on the bed, deep in the night, while his wife maintenanced her bow, her arrows, her sabre. She was more warlike than him. Once, her nomadic people had made an empire through conquest, had broken all the rules that dictated war and strategy and empires and power at the time.

“He doesn’t deserve family.” Manwe murmured. 

“I know.” Varda knew who he was talking of already. She set her arms aside, satisfied with their condition. “What would your brother think?”

“I don’t know.” Manwe pulled his knees into his chest. “I don’t expect him to forgive me for anything. I let my father hurt him for centuries. There’s no forgiveness for that sort of thing. We’re family, and family should be better than that.”

“I agree.” Varda slid closer to him and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to her. Manwe’s tense posture loosened.

“I admit: my motivations are horribly, horribly selfish. I’m mad at him; he prizes family so much that he kills it. I want him to never have family again.”

“Me too.” Varda sighed, sounding a bit relieved.

“What is it?” Manwe asked. “You sound relieved.”

“I am.” Varda says warmly. “I put up with your father for ages. He really is a piece of work, isn’t he.”

“I seem to have been very behind.”

Varda kisses him on the cheek.

“Love does that.” She said warmly. “Now, sleep. It’s late, and you’re terribly cranky when tired.”

Manwe chucked at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe found his spine. Such a lovely, straight spine it is.


	26. Plans

Mairon awoke to Melkor curled into his chest. Thoughtless, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, wrapping arms around him.

He’d been alive for so long, he’d died so many times, but he hadn’t really considered truly dying. He used to, in a philosophical sort of way, wondering if he was still human without the spectre of death. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. He guessed he was human. His heart still beat, he still breathed, he still ate, drank, and slept.

At the end of the day, when judgement would be passed, he hoped that would count.

Melkor sighed.

“My father doesn’t deserve family.” He said, still barely-awake.

“Good morning to you too, love.” Mairon said, finding Melkor to be particularly endearing at the moment.

“Love?” Melkor squaked, suddenly awake.

“I figured that a term of endearment would be less awkward than a confession.” Mairon said, cheeks flushing in embarrassment, shifting to disentangle himself.

“You love me back?” Melkor breathed, sounding genuinely lost and hopeful, pulling Mairon back with soft but insistent motions.

“Back? You live me back?” 

“I think you were a bit dying when I said so, but I love you. Cuddle with me; you’re warm and I have priorities.”

Mairon settled back into bed with Melkor.

“You did a complete one-eighty from ‘I hate my dad and want to ruin his life forever and ever’.” Mairon said.

“I don’t care. I’m currently basking in reciprocated love.” Melkor replied. “But, speaking of which, I do want to ruin the bastard. Mother’s death ruined him, and he became a foul thing barely worthy of wearing a man’s flesh.”

“You sound just as angry as my father when my sister married.” Mairon recalled with no great fondness his own anger, his own feelings of betrayal. Love and marriage, the great dividers. He had never heard his father raise his voice like that before, and he never heard it like that again afterwards. 

Mairon shook his head, shaking off the memories.

“What was that?” Melkor asked.

“I’ll tell you another day. I don’t want to talk of it now.” Mairon said quietly. “It’s not something you said, don’t worry.”

A bird of prey, finely pulmaged in rich browns, its blue eyes piercing, landed on the windowsill. It pecked at the bottom of the window frame insistently, demanding to be let in. When the bottom of the window didn’t give in to this most utterly magnificent bird promptly and with great haste, spread its wings in an angry, threatening display directed at the window and proceeded to strut back and forth insistently.

Melkor sat up to investigate the noise and laughed, then went to let the bird in.

It attempted to sweep in with a sense of majesty, but had to settle for an ungainly flippy-flap drop inside instead because the window couldn’t fit its wingspan. To make up for this, the bird worked his way onto the foot of Mairon’s bed and shook himself into presentability.

Then, the bird dramatically produced a note from its plumage and presented it to Melkor by waving said letter around in its beak proudly.

Melkor took the letter and read it.

“Interesting.” Melkor hummed. “Do you have a pen, Mairon?”

Mairon reached blindly to the bedside table where he knew he definitely had a pen. He handed it to Melkor, who accepted it with a quiet ‘thanks’, and scribbled a reply.

“You want to give it a look? The note, I mean.” Melkor offered Mairon the note.

Mairon quickly skimmed it, then handed it back.

“Your brother’s change of heart seems to have lasted.” Mairon mused.

Melkor nodded, and handed the note, with its scribbled reply on the back, to the bird.

The bird accepted it, preened proudly, then flip-flapped-hopped his way out of the window, and flew off.

“Rather spirited little fellow, that bird.” Mairon said.

Melkor shrugged.

“That little bird has always been spirited.” Melkor said fondly. “Ever since he was but a little thing that’d fit neatly in the palm of your hand, he’s been spirited. Of course, my brother named him Zoomies, so he might also be overcompensating.”

Mairon laughed.

“Zoomies? Was your brother five?”

“No, he was twenty.”

Mairon buried his face in his hands.

“I’ll assume no one lets him name anything anymore.”

Melkor smiled and shook his head.

“No, he still gets to name things. Luckily, it’s only pets that Varda lets him name.”

Mairon was officially awake now, and from the looks of it, Melkor was too. It was still morning, slowly shifting into that period of time before noon that was too late to be morning but too early to be noon.

“What do you say to brunch, since I’m up now?” Mairon asked.

Melkor considered for a moment.

“Why not. I’m hungry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zoomies, the highly spirited bird, in conjuction with Barkies, the highly spirited dog, and Head Donk, the cat that likes to head-nudge things.


	27. Chapter 27

“Shouldn’t we wait for your brother and his newfound companion to arrive?” Varda asked.

Manwe shook his head.

“I have to do this now, before I lose the will to.”

His face was set in a tight, grim line.

“And if he takes it as betrayal?”   
  


“Then I will know that I deserve that black mark on me. Have you gotten in touch with that general?”

“My old rival? Of course. She’s been updated, and if we don’t make it, she’ll take care of Eonwe.”

Manwe sighed in relief.

“You talk as if you won’t come back.” Eonwe said, glancing between them sharply. 

“Plan for the worst, little one. If the worst doesn’t happen, you will be pleasantly surprised. If the worst happens, you will be prepared.” Varda said.

She gathered up her sabre, her bow, her two quivers of arrows as Manwe shouldered the bag that had the ritual implements they needed.

“If we don’t come back, know that we’ll always love you.” Manwe said, hugging Eonwe tightly. Varda also hugged Eonwe, all afraid that this would be the last moment they had, all lingering longer than normal knowing this.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Manwe’s childhood home had long since been incorporated into his father’s home, but he still liked to imagine he could still see traces of that ancient, blessed fort.

It was imaginings, but nice imaginings nevertheless.

He set the bag on the ground, the morning dew not yet evaporated from unseasonably green grass.

From it he withdrew a ritual dagger, a lock of hair, and a pebble.

“I’m ready.” Manwe said to Varda. She nodded, nocking an arrow.

The ritual was a simple one. It needed only a piece of the person being bound, a piece of the place they’d be bound to, and the blood of the one being bound’s kin.

It was also a short ritual. Ideally, Manwe would do the magic, Varda would not have to shoot anything or anyone, and they would leave and go about their lives.

He kneeled on the grass, since this process would be easier that way.

Manwe lifted the blade.

“This is my will, here, sharpened and true.”

He heard the front door of the manor open.

Manwe made a small cut on his finger.

“This is my blood, the blood of a son.”

“What is the meaning of this?” His father called.

He heard the whistle of an arrow, the unnatural crack of stone, a shout of rage.

Manwe allowed a drop of blood to fall onto the hair.

A sharp gust of wind blew, but he was protected from it.

Varda hissed in pain.

Another arrow was fired.

“My son, please, think clearly on this.” His father begged. “I have always treated you well.”

“Here is the sinner, anointed in blood.”

Manwe allowed another drop of blood to fall onto the pebble.

“Here is the gaol, anointed in turn.”

“Don’t you dare!” HIs father raged. Another arrow was fired, and Manwe heard him grunt in pain.

“By my blood, by my will, let the sinner serve eternal penance.”

There was silence, then.

Manwe looked up.

His father was gone.

He stood and turned to his wife, checking to see if she was okay. 

There was a sharp cut across her right arm, so Manwe healed it without a second thought.

“You’ve finally done it, dear.” Varda said happily.

  
  
  


~~~

  
  


The morning sun was quite pleasant in its buttery, golden warmth, and Melkor had found a patch of sunlight on the floor.

So of course, that was where he stretched himself out to relax. Mairon found it quite funny, and Melkor was too happy in his sunlight to begrudge him that.

Melkor felt when his father was imprisoned. HIs brother hadn’t lied after all. 

It wasn’t that he thought Manwe lied, just that they didn’t always see the same thing. What was true to one wasn’t always true to the other.

“What is it?” Mairon asked, noticing that Melkor had gone from half-asleep to alert.

“Manwe did what he said he’d do. I’m free.” Melkor said, awed at the knowledge that he wouldn’t always be looking over his shoulder anymore.

“That’s wonderful.” Mairon said. “Truly, truly wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep that's it that's the story. Thank you for reading!


End file.
